


Her Majesty's Herald

by Konstantinsen



Category: Fallout: New Vegas, ゼロの使い魔 | Zero no Tsukaima | The Familiar of Zero
Genre: Camaraderie, Conspiracy, Family, Friendship, Gen, Loyalty, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantinsen/pseuds/Konstantinsen
Summary: Henrietta takes part in the sacred rite that defines a mage. She asks the cosmos for a familiar to serve her in these trying times as she leads her kingdom. The cosmos responds...with a magically inept herald equipped with advanced musketry, blessed with superior martial prowess, and cursed with chronic alcoholism.
Comments: 27
Kudos: 39





	1. Day I - IX

_Day I_

"Are you ready, _Madame Royale_?" inquired Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert.

Her Royal Highness Henrietta De Tristain, heir-apparent to the throne of the Kingdom of Tristain, nodded resolutely, her ornate wand held tightly in her grip. Her gaze was focused on the pentagram she had drawn on the flattened soil of the conservatory of the royal palace. To her right stood her most loyal retainer Captain Agnès Chevalier De Milan while to her right observed her most reliable advisor Cardinal Jules Mazarin.

"I'm ready, _Professeur_."

Colbert nodded. "Very well, _Madame Royale_. Please begin."

While she may not have attended the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes or any similar institution across Halkeginia, she was still a trained and adept practitioner of magic occupying the highest standing among the aristocracy. It was logical for her to partake in sacred tradition—more as a necessity since she was two years overdue for this—and it made practical sense for the heir-apparent to have her own familiar. After all, her late father had lost his own during the war with the Germanian Confederation several years ago while her mother's familiar remained largely retired, lounging either in her personal quarters or out in the yard.

Henrietta took a deep breath before raising her hand and reciting the words of the Invocation Familière Sanctifiée.

The first few moments of the ritual passed as normally as the overseeing Académie professor could tell. Then, all of a sudden, her wand suddenly released a massive burst of energy so bright that it nearly blinded all those present. Agnès, Mazarin, and Colbert were nearly thrown off their feet at the sudden subsequent shockwave that shattered glass, displaced furniture, and uprooted most of the neatly trimmed verdure in the conservatory.

Henrietta, however, remained firmly unmoved but flabbergasted at the amount of raw power she had exuded. For a triangle-class water mage, the magic she had released was more than what a square-class mage could conjure.

" _Madame Royale_!" coughed Agnès. "Are you alright!?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" the princess answered, shaking off her retainer's grip on her. "Is everyone alright?"

Mazarin returned to his place alongside Colbert but this time, they were wary of the fifth figure occupying the center of the pentagram.

The captain of the Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires immediately stood before her charge with her hands poised to draw on either her blade or one of her many flintlock pistols. " _Madame Royale_ , is that...your familiar?"

Henrietta felt her throat dry up as she now took in the sight of her summon: a man.

A large man in a long, brown, dusty coat and a weathered wide-brimmed hat. His face was hidden behind an odd yet unnerving iron (steel?) mask. His blackened cuirass was lined with belts that carried pouches, satchels, and pockets for small brass vials. He even wore on his right hand a strange, steel gauntlet inset with glowing jewels and a large shimmering emerald gem. Yet, the most alarming details were the assortment of weapons on his person: a short bastard sword sheathed by his hip, a quartet of odd steel pistols holstered all over his body, and a bulky musket wrapped in rags slung over his shoulder.

The princess felt her breath hitch. Ignoring Agnès's warnings and gesturing at Mazarin and Colbert not to intervene, Henrietta approached her summon. He easily towered over her, his glowing green eyes striking fear into hers. And the odor... Brimir above, he smelled! The musk of dried sweat, the pungent scent of strong drink, and the stinging in her nostrils that could only come from burning sulfur or...saltpeter?

Had this man come from the depths of Hell?

No. She could not be distracted by tangential inquiries. She needed to finish the Invocation...before this would get out of hand.

" _Monsieur_ , may I ask that you please remove your mask?" the princess requested.

The man did not respond, instead, tilting his head slightly.

Henrietta realized that he may not be from Tristain. So she gestured as best she could that he reveal his face.

After a while, the man reciprocated. He fiddled with the straps that seemed to hold his mask in place before it finally came off, hanging below his chin. What greeted her hesitant gaze was an unkempt, bearded face smeared in grime and bearing the weight of several years.

She stepped back and, after a hesitant nod from Colbert, she recited the final phrases of the Invocation.

The summoned man, though confused, remained unmoving until Henrietta gestured at him as though she wished to speak in his ear.

He complied, bowing his head, and immediately felt her lips press against his cheek.

What followed was a rapid series of actions and reactions that nearly ended with Henrietta's death had it not been for the timely intervention of the other three people present. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured...unless scrapes, cuts, and minor bruises were considered serious enough. And that was not to mention the odd Brimiric runes burned into the mysterious man's right hand as a result of the Invocation being successfully completed. Likewise, property damage still counted and some laborers had to be brought in to repair the conservatory...or what was left of it.

Unfortunately, as Mazarin pointed out later that evening, there were going to be serious complications for a _human_ familiar summoned by the crown princess of one of the four Brimiric kingdoms of Halkeginia. An intelligent, volatile, uncouth, and very dangerous human familiar.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day IV_

There were indeed dire consequences.

Henrietta did not need either Agnès or Mazarin to inform her of the not-so-subtle hints of resistance from the Church, the aristocracy, and even the plebes when it came to discussing the sudden stranger who appeared at her side and began functioning as her 'right hand.' It was all disconcerting with the wild rumors that began to spread throughout the capital Tristania.

Additionally, the revelations from Professor Colbert and Académie Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond, both of whom had rushed from their institution in County Hainault to deliver their findings in person, only instilled greater fear in Henrietta's heart. Thankfully, she showed none of that even after Cardinal Mazarin highlighted the possible actions to take should the Church in Romalia receive word that the heir-apparent to the throne of the Kingdom of Tristain was actually a Void mage.

For Brimir's sake, her element was _water_!

How was it even possible that she could also be a wielder of the lost element? Of the powers that only Brimir himself could successfully practice? While it was true that over the six thousand years since his death that there were cases of those suspected to be aligned to that affinity but the Church and many other groups like it had very little tolerance for that.

Then again, the current pope Saint Aegis XXXII was seen to be among the more lenient of the holy fathers...

"Well, shit," whistled the princess's familiar who, until now, preferred to go by his nom de guerre Courier Six (or 'the Courier' or 'Six' or whichever; Henrietta stopped caring). "Sounds like the inquisition's gon' come knockin' on your front doors soon, Henny."

Captain Agnès, Cardinal Mazarin, Professor Colbert, and Director Osmond all gave him stern looks but otherwise did not loudly rebuke him. After all, the man had shown that their reprimands entered his one ear only to leave out the other. Henrietta at least did not have to raise her hand to placate them for being slighted on her behalf; the princess was inwardly more welcoming of the pet name her familiar had for her. It was a decent relief from her formal, courtly life.

"I do hope you jest often, _Monsieur_ Sixième," Mazarin worded. "This is not a matter to be taken very lightly."

The Courier unfolded his hands and pushed himself off the column he was leaning against. "Oh, as a matter of fact, ole Julio, I do take this seriously."

"You don't seem to act like it," Agnès snorted.

"I mean, I am Henny's familiar. Her 'loyal companion' and 'personal bodyguard for life' if we stick to the definitions given by your eggheads here."

Offhandedly, Proffessor Colbert rubbed his hairless scalp while mouthing to himself whether or not his baldness was related to the term of being an 'egg-head.'

"That don' mean I'm leavin' you," the Courier continued. "I mean, I got all the world out there to explore and I have the means and the will to fight my way out if it comes to that."

"Be careful with your words, Sixième," the musketeer captain growled.

To which, the familiar gestured at her to let go of the hilt of her sword. "Really antsy today, aren't you, Angie? But just 'cause I can ditch Henny doesn't mean I'd do it in a heartbeat. She's got to deal with problems a girl like her shouldn't. And that don' sit right with me."

"So by your conviction," echoed Director Osmond, "you will stand by Her Majesty's side as her familiar."

Courier Six smirked. "I like your smarm, old man. We should sit down for a drink some time. Talk about enlightenment and the fifth element."

Osmond simpered and rubbed his long gray beard. "Why, I would gladly accept the offer, _Monsieur_ Sixième. Alas, my work at the Académie leaves little time for leisure."

"That's understandable. Work's always a bitch, after all."

The director snickered loudly. "That's one way of putting it."

Professor Colbert cleared his throat. "Pardon for the interjection, you two, but may we resume our discussion of dealing with any impending Papal Inquisition in light of Her Royal Highness's case as a Void mage?"

"How," Henrietta breathed loudly, ignoring the attention centering back to her. "How is it possible that I am both a mage of water and a mage of...of Void? All my training, all my lessons... My element has always been water!"

" _Madame Royale_ , while the Church is the most knowledgeable of Brimir and his powers, I must admit that we are not entirely accurate," Mazarin explained. "Hence, we continue to study the reasons for why things were and why things continue in the manner that they should not be. I am sure there are various theses written over the years exploring these avenues. I doubt the Inquisition would overlook any archival research in their fact-finding. The case of a person being of the Void since Brimir is not uncommon."

The Courier grunted, resting his calloused hand on the princess's shoulder. "Eh, look on the bright side, Henny. You can use two elements. Two's better than one. And I'm pretty damn sure you ain't the only one in the whole known world who can pull that off."

The cardinal sighed. "Simplistic. But _Monsieur_ Sixième has a point. Mastery over two elements is quite a common case and generally accepted in many circles. Additionally, such an advantage even yields immense practical usage."

"And a lot of jealous mages from all walks of life," muttered Agnès, "including incumbent rulers of powerful realms."

Henrietta shook her head. "But how can I be...how can I...?"

"I'm sure there's been someone in your history who's done what you did," the familiar said softly.

"And that's supposed to make me what? 'Special?'" snorted the princess as she remained despondently seated on her recliner.

Much to the surprise of most everyone in the regal chamber, her familiar stooped down to a knee in front of her so he could meet her in the eye. "Henny, you're special not 'cause you're a princess but 'cause you got somethin' that'll shake the boots off even the bigs-shots on this whole continent. And from where I'm from, that's not somethin' to be afraid of. That's somethin' to capitalize on."

Mazarin gasped. "You can't be seriously suggesting—"

"I ain't tellin' her to wage war, Julio. I'm only sayin' that Henny's got somethin' goin' for her. Somethin' big, game-changing. And, based on what I've been pickin' up about how things work around here, we best not screw it up else we're gon' be lookin' at some shit-storms we can't handle."

"We risk antagonizing the Church," the cardinal warned.

"And they ain't gon' come in here with pitchforks and torches right from the get go," the Courier retorted. "You believe in a god, sure, but you ain't stupid. I know holy men can be annoyin' as all livin' hell but a lot o' holy men I met in my travels are pretty damn smart. Way more than me. And I know they're gon' be tickin' all the boxes 'fore they do somethin' drastic."

The musketeer captain furrowed her brow. "How can you be so sure of all that?"

"Angie, it's just how people behave. No matter the time or place, no matter how sophisticated or hifalutin, we're all the same. People gon' be lookin' for answers to mysteries they find and a lot o' folks are smart enough to do some right diggin' 'fore they gon' be bustin' down doors." He turned to Professor Colbert. "Ain't that right, Baldy?"

"Pardon _Monsieur_ Sixième, but may I reiterate that my name is Jean-Baptiste Colbert. Not 'Bal-dee.' And yes... It is more beneficial to understand the unknown through the sources given than to trudge blindly into the abyss."

Henreitta looked up and saw the confidence in her summon's weighted eyes, the vindicated smile he sported to all those present. While his vocabulary would fit among the dregs of society, he was still an intelligent man speaking from study and experience. And she could tell that, no matter how many times Agnès or Mazarin would deny it, Courier Six was actually speaking some wisdom...for a thuggish commoner...with powerful muskets and a mystical steel gauntlet that hummed with a mysterious energy that made her skin crawl.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day V_

Henrietta found her familiar to be a mixed blessing. While his behavior and demeanor was generally aggravating, his actions often meant well.

Courier Six rarely minced his words and was willing to prove his point through brute force, even to the drawing of blood. The coldness in his voice and the lack of emotion in his eyes when he threatened to kill Agnès during a particularly heated argument proved that he was more than a mere commoner of some dispensable level of martial skill. Rather, there was no reason to doubt that the princess's familiar had seen his fair share of bloodshed in realms where water was scarce, sand buried ruined cities, the air remained poisoned for over two hundred years...and magic had long ceased to exist in the minds of man.

Such a life in a such a place would have no doubt created a monster.

Henrietta blinked to clear her mind (she did not summon a monster!) and waved away the smoke wafting over to her from the discharge of one of Agnès's flintlock pistols. A handful of the princess's own Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires were present at the shooting range of their barracks to observe the apparent 'testing' of their weaponry by 'Her Royal Highness's herald.'

"Not too shabby," he remarked, examining the weapon he just fired.

Across the field, the target sported a clean hole in its head.

"Your aim is...impeccable," Agnès observed (Henrietta had known her long enough to detect the awe and begrudging admiration in her voice). "At this distance...and with just a pistol."

The Courier let out a grunt as he handed back her firearm before gesturing at one of the observing musketeers for a musket.

The next shot, fired from the signature weapon of the princess's elite guard, yielded a far more accurate result with the ball once again lodging into the quintain's head, a bare inch above the last one.

"And you say you are a courier," Henrietta quipped nervously.

"I was," her familiar answered. "Deliverin' packages is a dangerous job, y'know."

No one disagreed with that. The life of a messenger was always rife with danger. Additionally, they had seen the ugly scars on his forehead and heard the grisly tale of how that came to be.

"So, Angie. What's your plan when goin' up against mages?" he asked.

"We have a variety of approaches," Agnès replied, having already consigned herself to that sobriquet. "The immediate approach is to fire first before the mage can cast a spell. It's not quite straightforward and is rather risky, especially when confronting them without the assistance of one's comrades."

Henrietta sat back on her chair as her retainer continued to list the various ways Tristain's royal musketeers dealt with their foes.

At the end of the discussion, the man let out a snort. "That's it, huh. Seems like y'all need some work."

To this, several of royal musketeers raised their brows. Agnès, in particular, folded her arms, posturing to accept a challenge. "I'm open to suggestions, Sixième."

The smile that the Courier gave off was most unnerving. "Good."

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day IX_

Henrietta walked out onto the balcony of the royal palace to find her familiar seated on a cushioned chair, stargazing while indulging in the hardest liquor that could be found in the royal cellars. From the look on his face, she could tell that he was still mesmerized by the beauty of the two moons. She could not hold it against him for being captivated by such a common sight as the man, after all, had been summoned from a place where civilization was buried under toxic sand and only a single white moon hung in the sky.

Such rare shows of serenity dispelled the image of a heartless mercenary that he seemed to relish cultivating. He may had formed a habit of antagonizing Mazarin, vexing Agnès, and giving Henrietta another headache to worry about. But, strangely enough, he behaved in the presence of her mother.

Her Majesty Queen Marianne De Tristain had become a fragile shell of herself in the wake of the passing of His Majesty King Henri De Tristain. The woman was still grieving and was having immense difficulty in properly leading her realm. And it seemed, as Henrietta, Agnès, Mazarin, and much of the palace staff observed, that Courier Six never pushed a person who was in mourning. And maybe, in the princess's mind, her familiar was himself in mourning.

"You want somethin'?" said familiar asked without shifting his gaze.

"It's late."

"I know, Henny." He emptied his goblet before filling it back up again. "Damn good stuff."

"You seem to be acclimating well," she remarked.

"You could say that I finally got it through to my head that this is my new reality now. No use in achin' for the past when the present is ten times better."

"Your past is harsh. Perhaps that is why your training regimen has been quite grueling."

He scoffed. "They say it takes ten musketeers to take down one mage. At best, takes five. In my books, it should only take one. One shot, one kill."

She winced at the mention of killing. "It is...unconventional."

"Heard it all, Henny. 'Disgraceful,' 'dishonorable.' 'Conduct unbecoming.' Like I give a damn. Let's be pragmatic here. You want a rogue mage taken down? Do some research first. If he's guilty, he won't stick around to hear the damn spiel about his rights to an attorney. One bullet to the noggin 'fore he has a chance to either bolt or burn you to a crisp."

Henrietta could not fault him for such logic; it did, after all, make sense to dispense with the unnecessary rituals in a serious situation. Though, she winced at how hard he was 're-training' Agnès and the rest of the Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires.

"Angie wants me to lighten up, huh," quipped Courier Six.

"I've heard complaints. But I think Agnès sees the wisdom in your methods."

"She's a tough girl. Been through hell, that much I can tell. Well, tell her that I ain't plannin' on drillin' 'em to death." He made a gesture with his left hand, imitating the shape of a pistol, before mimicking the recoil from it firing. "Just have to fine tune 'em a bit more."

The princess noticed the faint glow from his gauntlet—'Pip-boy,' he called it—lighting up the four bottles on the table, three of which were empty. "Don't you ever worry about your health?"

"I've been through worse," he dismissed.

She sighed, sitting on the vacant chair across from him. "Very well. Um, how has the past week been for you so far?"

The man with the ugly scar on his forehead regarded her with a flat look. "I'm surprised I ain't dead already."

Henrietta frowned. "Don't jest, please. I'm expressing serious concern for your behavior and your regard for the—"

"Look, Henny, I know that you want to, uh, bridge the gap between us." He set his goblet down on the table, showcasing the space on his right wrist where the Divine runes of the Invocation Familière Sanctifièe had been etched into his skin, probably burned all the way to the bone. "And I don't really have a say in the matter when an Abrahamic god—"

"Brimir."

"Whatever. Father Abraham's counterpart in these lands. I don't have a say when he's basically branded me to be someone's slave."

"You're not a slave!"

"Synonyms, Henny."

The princess deflated, her hands tightening over her lap. "I don't want you treated like a servant. I want you treated as an equal. You've shown that you more than merit it."

Shrug. "Eh, if you're referrin' to yourself, then you're doin' a good job of it."

"You're my familiar. As your superior, I'm just...very concerned about the ramifications of what you've been doing."

Her familiar, the supposed 'Right Hand Of God' according to the runes on his hand, sniggered. "If you're talkin' 'bout that little tiff between me and ole Julio—"

" _Cardinal_ Jules Mazarin," corrected Henrietta.

"We kissed and made up, don't worry."

"I would appreciate it if you weren't so crass."

"Can't help myself. Some habits die hard and some languages just can't be unlearned."

"Still, did you have to insult him in front of the entire court?"

The Courier waved dismissively. "We had a disagreement. He pushed, I pushed back. Things got heated. You know how it is."

"Meetings are supposed to be civil."

"Ideally. Realistically, though..."

The princess dipped her head into her hands. "I know, I know. But I have to know why...why do you have to make things so difficult for me..."

"Am I?" The man looked genuinely confused. "I thought it was just normal for a place like this. Y'know, how kings and queens and jesters and the annoyin' little pricks who constantly suck on your toes so they could get cushier seats..."

"Please don't refer to my subjects or their conduct as...as that."

"Well pardon me being blunt, _Madame Royale_ , but you just have to get used to it." He ran his hand over his scalp as the moonlight accentuated the hideous scars where two musket balls apparently lodged into his skull. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks as they say."

"You're not that old."

"I'm old enough to be your father."

Henrietta regarded him tiredly. "Is it too much to ask that you please...behave yourself a bit more?"

"Am I not?"

"No."

Shrug. "Well, I'll keep tryin' then. Can't guarantee a better success rate though."

"We gave you a title. We crafted a lie to defend your place by my side. You have to behave as the knight that you are lest I will be forced to have you expelled from the palace grounds and I cannot have that. Especially not at this time. So please, for our sakes and the sake of this kingdom, don't undo all of our efforts. Don't...don't ruin everything..."

Silence.

Followed by a sigh.

And the Courier leaning over from his seat. "Henny, I know you're doin' all you can to save your people. I ain't blind to that. But know that I've got my reasons for actin' the way I do. And some o' that's been hardwired into me 'cause o' where I'm from. Like I said: you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

The moment hung in silence before the princess tried another avenue. "In that case... How bad was your world? How terrible was it that you are willing to risk so much? That you are...who you are."

He laughed. "If I told you everythin', we'd be here all night."

She mulled that. The moons were not that high up in the sky and her mother had already retired for the evening. Mazarin and Agnès were at the former's office going through her itinerary for tomorrow and that often led to long-winded arguments which sometimes lasted hours. So far, the princess had the rest of the night off. And it really was already late.

Then again, she couldn't sleep. Not with so much going on.

"I can spare the time." With that, the seventeen-year-old royal grabbed his wine and took a swig straight from the half-empty bottle. Brimir above, the kick was strong! What little taste there was had been diluted by the potency of the spirits of the ale.

Her familiar snickered. "That's behavior most unbecoming of you, _Madame Royale_."

The princess slammed the bottle down on the table. "I blame you for your horrible influence."

"Hate to say I'm proud of it."

Her throat burned and her tongue had yet to do away with the bitterness of the drink but at least she had reason to stay by his side. "Now. You said your tale would last all throughout the night."

"If you have the time."

"I do have the time," Henrietta bit back. "Start talking. That's an order."

For the first time, Courier Six laughed. "Alright, Henny, I hear you. Let's start with an old saying back where I'm from. It's about war. And war... War never changes."

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 23, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: January 8, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 1, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (January 1, 2021) - My first publication for 2021. This started out as a bunch of snippets. Then I thought I'd link them together to form this sort of story.
> 
> Originally, this was going to follow the usual formula of Louise being the summoner but the original draft for this came out really dark to the point that even I felt uncomfortable proofreading it. So I instead rewrote it as Henrietta doing the summoning in a more controlled environment.
> 
> There's a lot more that I've added. Just have to string them all together in a cohesive chapter and hopefully with a conclusion because Lord knows I have other, bigger, longer stories I need to finish.


	2. Day XII - XVI

_Day XII_

Henrietta sagged ungraciously onto the settee in the royal chamber. She ignored the shouting match in front of her, opting instead to massage her temples to drive away the impending headache courtesy of the most recent actions of her familiar.

Or, according to the tale they came up with, her newest 'traditionalist' bodyguard; an 'unconventional' knight-errant whose actions and dedicated service merited his low noble title (and offset his egregious behavior). Already, half her royal court was starting to doubt the story. So far, though, no one had yet considered the possibility that the man was her familiar. After all, the concept of a _human_ familiar was laughable at best and blasphemous at worst.

Then again, very few people outside her inner circle were aware of the fact that she had partaken in the Invocation earlier than usual. After all, the annual hosting of the sacred ritual summoning of familiars was due in a few weeks time. Maybe a student at the Académie would summon a _person_ instead of a mindless beast. Though that would mean that the summoner was a Void mage as well. And the presence of _two_ Void mages on Tristainian soil would be enough of a melting pot for instability, even without the Church getting involved. Thankfully, such hypothetical controversies were not the focus of today's argument.

"Do you have any idea how thin the line is that you have tread!?" hollered Cardinal Mazarin.

"As a matter of fact, I do, my ole pal Julio," flippantly countered Courier Six. Or, more formally, Sir Françoise Achille Bazaine (interestingly, the man himself came up with the name, citing an old hero from his home).

"Is that so, _Chevalier_ Bazaine? Well I am most unconvinced of your in-depth knowledge of politics and diplomacy!"

"That's just you. Me? Well, you could say that today I learned a bit more 'bout how politics work here in Tristain."

Finding her voice, the princess barked out for silence. Shortly thereafter, she tiredly ordered her familiar to shut up and her advisor to cool his head. Their yelling was making hers hurt.

Cardinal Mazarin apologized before he continued his tirade against her familiar in a more subdued tone. He grimly admitted that nothing could stop this newest disaster from happening without serious ramifications for Her Royal Highness and the Crown. It was bad enough that she lacked the genuine support of most of Tristain's noble houses. While the combined professional soldiery of her own demesne could suffice for a small army, it was still small compared to a coalition of the other dominions under the Crown. And that was not to mention the commoner levies who, according to her agents in the streets, were not as loyal to her as they should be.

"Her Royal Highness's reputation carries her authority, you know," interjected Agnès who seemed to have been fighting off the same headache. Loud, competing voices in a room tended to bring great discomfort.

"If that's the case, then this'll put the fear o' God in 'em," the Courier retorted, tapping the glistening steel on his hip.

"Musketry?" the musketeer captain scoffed. "Believe me, Sixième. I've dealt with rebellious nobles before and it is not as easy as you think it is."

"That's you. Not me."

"What's the difference? You can't do magic."

"Nope. But I can shoot straight."

Both the musketeer captain and the cardinal held back their rebuttals. And Henrietta knew why.

The muskets her familiar carried were unlike any manufactured in Halkeginia. While he refused to have his weapons appraised by anyone, Agnès's keen eye discerned of them a superior quality and technological superiority that far surpassed even the most advanced firearms ever known. These strange weapons were forged out of polished steel with the barrels 'rifled' for sharper accuracy and, in the Courier's words, 'greater stopping power.' Unlike the flintlocks that were the staple of most armies throughout the continent, Sir Bazaine wielded deafening hand-cannons that spat out less smoke yet were more damaging than a powerful square-class offensive spell.

And that was not to mention the mechanisms that made such weapons work so efficiently. Spinning chambers, oiled levers, coiled springs... The princess did not know which was more frightening: either Courier Six's guns could shoot several times without the need to reload or the process of reloading itself lasting quicker than the time it would take a mage to draw his wand. The mangled remains of the quintains in the training yard of the Corps Royale Des Mousquetaires were evidence of such deadly firepower.

Agnès drew out her words. "Sixième, you do know how duels work here, right?"

"O' course I do, Angie. I did my research."

"Research, huh. What about experience?"

"Come on, now. You forgot your drills?"

"As much as I appreciate your training regimen, I doubt you'd manage a clean shot against an accomplished mage the likes of _Comt_ _é_ Jules Mott De Hainault!" barked the musketeer captain. "He is a triangle-class water mage with two years of military service and a lifetime of mastery over his element. Men of his skill could cast faster than we could aim! If there was anything he genuinely earned in his life, it's his runic name of _La Vague_!"

The Courier tilted his head. "What is it the Good Book said? We're all the same in the eyes o' the Lord."

Mazarin frowned deeper. " _Le Fondateur_ Brimir gifted his descendants with magic to guide the less fortunate—"

"Magic or no, we still return to the dust, ole Julio. Just 'cause the prick can wave a stick right doesn't mean he's invincible."

The cardinal huffed. "Are you seriously entertaining the prospect of a _duel_ _à_ _l'outrance_?"

Agnès groused. "Knowing _Comt_ _é_ De Hainault, he would insist on it. Probably wager his entire county like he did that one time. And since he issued the challenge so publicly, it would be detrimental to Her Royal Highness if her 'right-hand man' was to deny it. Not at this time. And not with so much on the line."

"It's too late to back down now," Henrietta interjected sternly, regarding her familiar with a rare show of anger. " _Comt_ _é_ De Hainault has yet to mention any stipulations regarding your upcoming duel, Sixième."

Courier Six gave her a very unsettling grin. "Well, _Madame Royale_ , we're going to find out tomorrow."

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XIII_

The duel lasted a quarter of a minute.

It was the most shocking affair in the history of Tristain and, Henrietta dreaded, perhaps even the whole of Halkeginia.

In the middle of the field of honor of the royal palace—trimmed grounds hallowed specifically for sanctioned duels—lay the broken corpse of Count Jules Mott 'The Wave' De Hainault, the royal messenger. The midmorning sun shown down brightly over the cadaver, three large holes ripped into it. The dumbfounded spectators, most of whom held high stations in Tristain's peerage as well as considerable mastery of their arcane affinity, could only gawk at the supposedly 'bastard knight' who had bested a trained, martially competent, and experienced triangle-class water mage.

From her seat, the princess stared wide-eyed at the haunting, lifeless visage of the deceased royal messenger.

For a moment, only the morning breeze made noise.

Then someone coughed. And another wheezed. Soon, the yard was filled with flabbergasted whispers and mutters of denial, of disbelief, of abhorrence at the fact that an unshaven commoner flaunting a noble title had put down a far superior aristocratic foe with only three shots from some damned musket.

Henrietta, stiff in her seat, cautiously swept her stunned gaze over those in attendance.

Across the field, Duke Antoine IV De Gramont regarded the spectacle with an air of defiance; a hardened man who followed in his family's long history of distinguished military service, it was clear he was appraising what he had witnessed. The Tristainian senior commandant almost always advocated research into military innovation and having witnessed a pistol that fired thrice in rapid succession without a need to load in a lead ball through the barrel, pour in the powder, and set the mechanism to spark on the trigger... Duke De Gramont had enough discipline to hide his catharsis.

Under the colonnade, Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes, however, was appalled. His grey hairs twitched across his face. Clearly, the commander of Tristain's vaunted Corps De Chevaliers Griffons stood corrected in his initial assumptions of Mott's opponent. The griffon knight commander may be quick and deadly efficient with his rapier-wand but he was wise enough to recognize a foe with commendable martial skill with even the most rudimentary weapons. Cowed, Viscount Wardes eased back into the shadows.

Beside the princess, Cardinal Jules Mazarin blinked emptily as he listened to the whispers of Archduke Olivier De Poitiers. Both men were now recounting the duel, moment by moment. Both men, whose decades of experience spoke volumes of their skill and mastery of the court, were dumbfounded that a magically inept nobleman had dodged an attack by the royal messenger with the graceful speed of a gazelle and, faster than anyone anticipated, fired three times in quick succession from a single deafening pistol. Each shot hit their mark: one to Mott's leg that crippled him, one to Mott's wand arm that rendered him combat inefficient, and one to Mott's head that killed him.

Henrietta looked up to Captain Agnès Chevalier De Milan and, for the first time in a long time, she glimpsed absolute fear over her most loyal retainer.

Eventually, one of the high nobility in attendance, the esteemed Duke Centurion De La Vallière, husband to one of Halkeginia's most powerful mages, shuffled out of the crowd of onlookers. He approached the bloodied body more out of tradition and self-assurance than to actually see whether or not Count Jules Mott De Hainault was truly dead. A moment later, the obvious victor was announced.

By then, Sir Françoise Achille Bazaine, knight-errant bound to serve the Tristainian Crown, had departed the field and was instructing one of the palace staff to fetch him a goblet and a bottle of hard ale from the royal cellar.

Already, Henrietta could feel the consequences of this duel shaking the foundations of her family's rule over Tristain.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XIV_

Duke Centurion De La Vallière winced in mild annoyance when he heard his companion Chevalier Françoise Achille Bazaine whistle as they surveyed the exterior of the manor that, by all rights, now belonged to the latter: the new count of the Tristainian province of Hainault.

"This ain't just a mansion, this is a damn fortress," the man remarked, eyeing the stone walls and towers surrounding an estate that was deemed far too lavish for a nobleman in the lower echelon of Tristain's peerage.

"Shows that the late _Comt_ _é_ Jules Mott De Hainault spared no expense in boasting his influence," snidely quipped the monocled duke.

"Prick loved to show how big his dick was, huh."

"How crass of you, _Chevalier_ Bazaine."

"Get used to it, Ken."

Sigh. "You're never going to stop calling me that, aren't you?"

Grunt. "I've had bad memories of folks callin' themselves 'centurion.' Besides, 'Ken' is easier to say than your title and your last name. And we're on friendly terms, now, right? You can call me by my first name, you know. No need for all that formality."

Breathe deep. Breathe out. "As much as I would love to, there is a dissonance...borne from the fact that you share the same name as my youngest daughter."

An inquisitive brow rose. "Really now? Then again, 'Françoise' fits both sides o' the coin. Gon' be real awkward if I ever pay a visit to the family, eh."

"Please don't," breathed the duke. "Louise would be...quite beside herself if she were to learn that she also shared a name with...someone the likes of you."

Laughter. "Aw, come on, now, Ken. I ain't that bad. And...I thought your daughter's name was Françoise."

"Louise _Fran_ _çoise_ Le Blanc De La Vallière."

"Oh, right. Y'all fancy them long-winded namin' conventions. Eh, when in Rome." The grizzled count roughly nudged the duke as their carriage rounded the fountain, coming to a slow stop in front of an ornate staircase leading to a glorified portico. "Now come on. I'm pretty sure there's more o' this eye candy inside."

"'Eye candy?'"

"It's a term. Come on, let's just get this over with."

The two noblemen were welcomed by lines of uniformed servants and guards covering their flanks. The head butler and the senior commandant introduced themselves curtly to which Centurion could hear Bazaine dispassionately mutter to himself that he was an aristocrat now. The former knight-errant was going to have to get used to all the curtsies and patrician polity that came with his station.

"At ease," ordered the new Count De Hainault.

Senior Commandant Ney and Head Butler Berthier exchanged glances before nodding at their respective subordinates to relax from their rigid stances.

"Christ, feels like I'm back in the army," their new master loudly groused, earning a few raised brows from both the guards and the servants.

"I'd take pride in my military service if I were you," Duke De La Vallière said, feeling quite slighted given his own years of prideful service to the Crown.

Sir Bazaine eyed his fellow peer before shaking his head. "Some things you do in the service that you ain't right proud of, Ken."

"A discussion for another day then." The duke then nodded to Berthier who proceeded to gesture at the two aristocrats to follow him across the manor.

* * *

Their tour of the grounds revealed the excesses of Tristainian nobility. And while Centurion himself had his indulges every now and then, they paled in comparison to the appalling overindulgences of the late Jules Mott. It was frankly disgusting. Completely unbecoming of a nobleman and, if he were the Pope, a sacrilege to the moral code of Brimiric gentry. And all these were fuel for Count Bazaine De Hainault's scathing oration about the behavior and supposedly chivalrous code of conduct that the aristocracy were bound to follow.

Of course, Duke De La Vallière would not allow such insults to go without rebuke. The resulting argument however, though mild and unashamedly in full display of the manor staff, only embarrassed him. Then again, who could win an argument of shame against a man who was pridefully shameless? Though, Centurion had to humbly admit to both Bazaine and the manor staff that the nobility was guilty of many egregious faults.

"I must warn you, however, that such talk is not very openly tolerated in this land," the duke later warned.

The new count sniggered. "I'm barely tolerable by nature. It's amazin' that with how stuck-up a lot o' you are, it took over a week for someone to try and cap my ass."

Some of the attending maids and butlers blinked in surprise at such profanity.

And the duke noticed. "Really, as per my station as your peer, I should chastise you for your language."

"Ah, none of that right now. We ain't puttin' on a daisy act for the masses."

"'Daisy act?'"

Shrug. "Another term."

Duke De La Vallière pinched the bridge of his nose. "Be grateful that my wife's not here. She despises such behavior unbecoming of a nobleman which, need I remind you, _you are_."

Count De Hainault only gave him a malicious smirk. "You really fear your wife more than the Crown?"

"Didn't I already tell you why? In full detail, _at your constant behest_? Ten times already?"

He sniggered, much to his great annoyance and the barely-contained amusement of the servants. "I dunno. I keep forgettin'. Somethin' about your wife handin' you your own ass on a silver platter, right? Or was it that she made you run naked in the vineyard in the middle o' winter or somethin'?"

The duke fumed at the open laughter of some of the staff. Even the ever-disciplined Head Butler Berthier turned his head away to hide his snickers.

Bazaine, however, widened his smug smirk into a malicious grin. "Can't remember much, buddy, so I'd really like to hear it again. Louder this time 'cause, uh, y'know, I couldn't hear you last time."

Brimir above, Centurion was starting to regret patronizing this fool. "You are very vexing, you know that?"

* * *

Siesta sat nervously in the office of Académie Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond.

The simple maid from the humble coastal town of Talbes in the neighboring County Flanders in northern Tristain was dressed in a modest tunic and gown. Her few belongings had been packed into her luggage case while her Académie uniform had been turned in to Chef Marteau. She was prepared to depart the institution only to be called up by the director himself in light of recent news that had reached them from the capital involving her would-be employer.

To say that the Académie was shocked was an understatement. A relative air of silence fell upon the entire fortress. Count Jules Mott 'The Wave' De Hainault, the lord of the province where the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes was located, had been killed in a duel at the royal palace.

That meant that the province of Hainault was deprived of its magistrate. That meant the local lords—the mayors, the brigade commandants, and the petty nobles who relied on Mott's finances and standing in the Cour Royale—were now at a temporary loss. That meant that the entire territory had reverted back to the direct control of the Crown until Mott's replacement was to be installed.

That meant that Siesta was stuck in limbo. Technically, she no longer served the Académie; she was supposed to have taken the carriage to Chateau Hainault early this morning. Instead, she was stuck here. No work, possibly no pay. Until the matter of her contract had been resolved.

All these left her in a mixing pot of emotions. While she was elated—Founder forgive her for her resentment—that the notoriously promiscuous Count Jules Mott De Hainault had departed this world, she was also fearful of whoever would come after him. For all anyone new, Mott sired no offspring and whatever next of kin he had was either dead or in Gallia. That and his membership to one of Tristain's larger noble houses was more out of coin that out of genuine relationship.

"A lot to take in, isn't it," remarked Director Osmond. "I can hear the jubilee from _Comt_ _è_ Mott's passing."

Siesta heard a snicker and glanced over her shoulder to the Académie secretary Miss Marie Justine Longueville, a low Albian noblewoman who happened to immigrate before the civil war began tearing the floating islands apart. The bespectacled woman could not hide her small smile. "No love lost if anyone were to ask me."

Osmond leaned over across his desk with a stern face. "Now, _Ma'amselle_ Siesta. As to the matter of your contract."

The maid gulped.

"Since yours was purchased by _Comt_ _è_ Mott the day before his unfortunate end, you are now technically a part of his estate. And, according to the conditions of the duel that ended him, you are now to be serving his...victorious opponent."

Siesta kept her head bowed even as she nodded. "I understand, _Monsieur Directeur_."

"Now, now. No need to so apprehensive. I'm sure the new _Comt_ _é_ De Hainault would be more lenient."

Siesta was tempted to contest the centenarian wizard on that assumption. The look she gave him seemed to have given him that impression because he snickered to himself.

"I am well affiliated with the Crown and so far, your new employer has more honor than many of the other nobles in this kingdom combined." Osmond gave her an encouraging smile. "Far better than Jules Mott, that is for sure."

"In what regard, if I may?" interjected Longueville.

"For one, he does not behave in the same manner as the late count."

The secretary snorted. "Of course. Not all men are the same."

The director snickered cheekily. "A poor generalization but one that we must admit is one of our common faults."

The maid could only listen in on the conversation between her betters. She wanted to learn a bit more about the new count but decided on letting the Académie prod for answers on her behalf.

Eventually, Osmond pulled out his polished oak pipe and began feeding crushed tobacco leaves in preparation for a long drag. That meant that the director was relaxed enough to discuss more sensitive topics. The fact that the maid had not been dismissed yet also meant that she was deemed trustworthy to listen in on such sensitive topics.

" _Chevalier_ Françoise Achille Bazaine, a knight-errant with twenty years of experience. A hardened and capable man who had somehow earned the favor of Her Royal Highness herself," the director began. "I've met him once. Quite the fellow. Very intelligent and rather...crass. But he does have a good head for statecraft and a keen interest in academia."

The two women eyed him.

'Earned the favor of Her Royal Highness herself?'

Had this place been a seedy tavern, then shock would follow at the scandalous insinuation that Princess Henrietta De Tristain had found a wayward lover (old enough to be her father!) and was trying to cover it up.

"I know what you're thinking," Osmond continued, dragging on his pipe and letting out a cloud of smoke. "And I assure you that such hearsay is merely hearsay; all completely untrue. I must clarify, in contrast to these malicious rumors, that _Chevalier_ Bazaine had actually saved Her Royal Highness's life."

Longueville raised a skeptical brow while Siesta leaned in curiously.

"You are aware of the incident at the royal palace not too long ago," the director continued. "Some assassin managed to break through, made a mess of the royal conservatory in an attempt to put down his quarry. How fortunate that _Chevalier_ Bazaine, in his chivalric altruism, uncovered the plot and pursued the assassin throughout the palace grounds and made short work of him before the worst would befall Her Royal Highness."

"And Her Royal Highness rewarded him with full knighthood," the secretary completed slowly. "I was not expecting that rumor among others to be true."

"He is a knight?" the maid mouthed dumbly.

The centenarian wizard chuckled. "He was a knight-errant but a proper knighthood grounded him here in Tristain. And potentially saved him from wandering into his death in Gallia. Or taking up arms in Albion. Or getting hunted down in Germania or Romalia for crimes no one knows."

"So a mercenary basically," Longueville deadpanned.

Osmond, surprisingly, did not disagree. He shrugged before dragging on his pipe again. "Knights-errant are often mistaken for mercenaries, _Cher_ Marie Justine."

Siesta eased back onto the cushioned chair feeling no less assured than she had been moments ago.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XV_

The first issue of the day to greet Henrietta was a letter of protest signed by half the Cour Royale of Tristain. And her mother Marianne was not happy.

" _Comt_ _è_ Bazaine De Hainault is becoming more burdensome than you anticipated, my daughter."

The princess bowed. "I apologize, mother. But you must understand why—"

The queen held up her hand. "I know of the nature of your relationship with him. He is your familiar, you are his superior. However, you must take into account the sentiments of our vassals. Especially in light of that duel in the field. There is a reason why we shutter those grounds. To prevent incidences like that, to keep untimely deaths from these godforsaken duels. And these deaths can be detrimental to the stability of our kingdom."

Henrietta glanced to Cardinal Mazarin standing beside the queen's throne. To her dismay, the royal advisor remained tightlipped and stone-faced.

Marianne sighed. "What have you unleashed upon us, my daughter?"

It was a rhetorical question and the princess let the moment pass in painful silence.

"Henrietta, what reason will you give for standing by your familiar? What excuse can you conjure that would placate our people who are asking why a man such as Sixième Courrier is now mantling the esteemed duty of royal messenger?"

"I...I doubt they would be accepting of what I say."

"What would you have me say then?"

Henrietta breathed deep. "... Tell them that _Comt_ _è_ Bazaine De Hainault is my direct responsibility. His actions reflect me and as such, I stand by my order not to rescind the conditions of the duel. It will not bring back a dead man."

"And of that dead man's duties? _Comt_ _è_ Mott De Hainault handled our messages to our peers, our fellow leaders. He was our means of communicating with our subjects. From our citizens to our direct subordinates, to the high nobility, to kings and emperors, to the Pope even. And now that role is being relegated to his successor who, up to this point, has behaved nothing like a royal messenger."

"He was a courier, mother."

"Do you expect me to trust him by his word?"

The princess clenched her fists. "No. But I ask that you trust me...trusting him."

The queen regarded her daughter for a moment. "... Very well. We will convene with the Cour Royale and you will explain to them why their petition is denied."

Henrietta nodded somberly, welcoming the new headache that came with taking care of a man was supposed to take care of her.

* * *

Siesta was sitting on her bed in her quarters in the staff ward.

So far, with no word yet from Count Bazaine De Hainault about her employment, Director Osmond saw fit to have her back working her shifts. After all, the conditions of her transfer did not cover any prohibitions during her grace period.

So here she was, back with her fellow maids at the end of a long day. The chatter was largely the same, though with the topics sometimes bouncing back to the relative uncertainty of Siesta's future.

Besides, the only thing they knew about Chevalier Bazaine was that he was a notorious drunk with the mouth of a sailor and the abrasive wit of a dung farmer. Not entirely the behavior of a count, no less the lord of the province of Hainault. Then again, over the years, there have been aristocrats like him though their names were often spoken with derision and their legacies tarnished by offended scribes.

As to how such crass, adulterated, flippant pariahs regarded commoners...

"Wasn't he himself a commoner? A courier for some low liege-lord?" raised Jasmine. "He even wandered Germania apparently!"

"And where did you hear that from?" argued Amilie. "I thought he was a knight-errant or something. He does use muskets and a blade more than a wand."

"Sounds like a wandering sell-sword if you ask me," quipped Nina.

"But still, to have the skill to save Her Royal Highness from an assassin," mused Siesta.

The other maids gave her deadpan looks.

"No one's really sure how he defeated _Comt_ _è_ Mott but the fact is that _Comt_ _è_ Bazaine is our new governor," the dark-haired maid continued. "And...whether or not he can cast magic...I feel assured that he doesn't seem the type to be...well...much like his predecessor."

Jasmine glanced to Amilie who turned to Nina who was looking away, rubbing her arm. "We don't really know that for sure."

Siesta sighed. "I know. But I can still hope."

"Hope that something happens to your contract and you get to stay with us then."

She rolled her eyes. " _Merci_ , Amilie. Your optimism is always appreciated."

" _Oh mon_ , Siesta. Is that sarcasm I hear?"

"Oh, quiet you three. It's late and we have work to do tomorrow."

"Double the work, you mean," groused Nina. "What with the Invocation due soon and a whole batch of students summoning Brimir knows what!"

"Ugh, the slobber."

"And the dung heaps."

"You think that one student would actually summon something?"

Siesta and the others turned to Jasmine. "Who?"

"The one with the explosions. 'Zero,' I think her name was."

" _Ma'amselle_ Vallière?" Amilie tapped her chin in thought. "I mean...technically, she isn't incapable of magic."

"Pray tell, _cher chercheur_ Amilie," teased Nina.

"I mean, she can cast explosions. That's something. Something is better than nothing. I mean, if she really was not a mage, then she would have been sent home last year."

"An explosion doesn't really mean it's magic."

"Yes, it is!"

Siesta shook her head as two of her fellow maids once again argued with each other over what little they knew of the arcane arts. For her, she was more concerned about what awaited her when her grace period was over. Soon, she was going to be delivered to Chateau Hainault to serve under the enigma that was Count Françoise Achille Bazaine.

A few minutes of loud bickering later, Chef Marteau rasped his knuckles heavily on their door. He then gruffly reminded them to go to bed because their chatter was keeping him awake. So the maids snuffed out their lanterns and put out the torches on the sconces before retiring for the evening.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XVI_

The Cour Royale convened at the ninth hour of the morning in the session hall of the royal palace. Some were representatives, given the intensive duties of some of Tristain's lords. But all were here to discuss some of the more pressing issues plaguing the Kingdom of Tristain. The first and foremost being the petition to reevaluate the noble merit of Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault. And the faction within the court that was stridently against him were ready to argue their case in the presence of Her Royal Highness and Her Majesty. They presented a litany of his 'abuses' and were ready to condemn his name...until the count himself appeared.

And the man, upon realizing that he was being impeached, promptly refuted their claims with the unfiltered crass that provoked Jules Mott into walking into his early grave in the first place.

This time, no one was foolish enough to challenge him to a duel (or on anything at all). Besides, he carried his bedeviled muskets _and_ his ugly bastard sword with him into the session hall. That gesture alone was an affront to nearly everyone in the court. To showcase such blatant defiance to the traditional expression of absolute trust in the royals by carrying one's own weapons—wand, sword, or musket—into the royal halls unless one was a member of the palace guard...

"Need I remind you numbskulls," Count Bazaine De Hainault retorted, "That I'm technically Her Royal Highness's personal bodyguard."

"Should not the accused be stripped of any means to cast harm to others?" challenged an irate Archduke De Poitiers, pointing to the litany of pistols holstered across his chest down to his hips.

"Now that ain't written down on any parchment now, ain't it? Believe me, I checked. You can look 'em up yourselves but I doubt you got the time to go rummagin' through the archives for that."

"You do not have our confidence, _Chevalier_ Bazaine," growled Duke De Gramont.

"Yeah, yeah. We're all tryin' to be parliamentary 'bout this but frankly, you're goin' to need to rethink your show trial right here."

"Show trial?" asked Duke De La Vallière.

Count De Hainault smirked at him. "Ken, I know you're smarter than this."

All eyes shifted to the current patriarch of House Vallière who, seated next to his wife, started twirling the end of his mustache while doing his best to appear deep in thought. His wife, however, was now regarding her spouse with a narrow glare.

"Y'all are smarter than this," the count continued, gesturing at the rest of those present. "I came in here to find all this bullshit heaped on me. Well, y'all forgot that you need me!"

Henrietta glanced to her mother who was looking most uncomfortable with this spectacle. Then her gaze shifted to Mazarin and Agnès; each expressed concern that this session was exposing the rifts in the system that kept Tristain intact since its founding. Through it all, the princess's familiar continued in his tirade against his opponents before culminating in an impassioned oration regarding the greater threat to Halkeginian society: decay.

Not the elves in the Holy Land.

Not the rebellion in Albion.

Not the chaos in Gallia, or the warmongering of the Germanian Confederation, or the divisions in the Church in Romalia.

"This is why shit is fucked!" declared Courier Six, Count of Hainault. "For all we know, Brimir's pro'lly rollin' in his grave or weepin' up in the sky 'cause of how fucked the world is. I read enough o' the holy texts to know that the society we have now is _not_ the society that the Founder himself envisioned when he forged the foundations of this continent."

The Cour Royale was stunned into silence, though many continued to glare past their shame. No one wanted to openly admit that he was right. But Henrietta could see that they were all glancing away at the mention of the decay of the aristocracy and how much of the noble creeds have been abandoned by generations of mages who had lost interest in staying true to Brimir's words.

"Now I ain't pointin' any fingers. But I ain't the problem here. I'm just tryin' to set things straight...even if it ain't as ethical and 'holy' as some of y'all think it should be."

" _Comt_ _è_ De Hainault," echoed Mazarin. "The purpose of this session is to determine your ability to effectively conduct your duties as Count of Hainault."

"And the purpose of my bein' here is to tell y'all that I am. That this whole damn charade is a waste o' valuable time."

"Are you trying to divert our attention from your blatant offenses?" De Poitiers snarled.

"As if your hands are clean," growled the Courier. He turned to Her Royal Highness. " _Madame Royale_ , you heard my case. You heard theirs. I trust that you're seein' the bigger picture here. Replacin' me, much less tryin' to handle an extra lordship in addition to your own demesne, is a drain on Tristain's already dwindlin' resources. We got more pressin' matters to attend to and I'd rather spend time, energy, and coin addressin' 'em."

"And for what reason should we ignore your...your affront to the foundations of our society!?" barked De Gramont.

Henrietta eyed her familiar, silently pleading with him to salvage this mess that he was making her fix. And that was when she saw his response. His cunning, his guile, his 'trump card' as he often put it.

With a prideful smile, Courier Six strolled across the hall to where both the princess and the queen were seated. He withdrew from his coat a rolled scroll and handed it to her.

"As I said, folks. You need me."

Henrietta unrolled the parchment. A moment later, her hands began to tremble. Over her shoulder, she could hear her mother gasp in horror.

The rest of the Cour Royale held in their breaths as Mazarin read out what was written. And they were mortified. A new set of accusations were made: the late Count Jules Mott De Hainault had been secretly collaborating with nefarious agents in Gallia as well as spies from the anti-monarchist Reconquista Coalition in Albion.

The Courier presented even more evidence, in the form of letters drafted in Mott's unmistakeable handwriting. Each word condemned the dead count. Tristainian resources were being 'diverted' to small merchant houses in Gallia. These merchant houses would then freely send these resources to the Reconquista Coalition, in essence, contributing to the fall of the kingdom of the floating island.

And that was but one of the damnations. Count De Hainault brought in small tomes recording discrepancies in the levied tax and the amount of money stored in Mott's personal coffers. This was followed by testimonies from young plebeian women who recounted through stinging tears the horrors of serving under Jules Mott, their bodies bruised and their virtues besmirched.

At the end of the session, the Cour Royale had no choice but to vindicate the unconventional (if not outright degenerate) methods of their most hated member Count Bazaine De Hainault. To the point, Archduke Olivier De Poitiers himself formally withdrew the petition against the Courier...thus sparing Her Royal Majesty Henrietta De Tristain the burden of denying it, of antagonizing her vassals, of losing vital support and potentially dooming the Crown.

* * *

Later that evening, the princess found her familiar lounging once more on the same cushioned recliner on the same balcony, savoring the constellations in the sky, a goblet of heavy spirits in his hand and bottles of even more lined on the table.

"You want somethin', Henny?" he asked.

Henrietta did not respond. Instead, she strode in front of him, blocking his view of the stars.

The Courier raised her brow at her. Then he noticed how stiff her expression was and how hard her fists were clenched on her sides. He set his goblet down on the table as he righted himself against the velvet. "Henny?"

" _Merci beaucoup_ ," she choked out.

He straightened his back. "Henny."

" _Merci beaucoup_ , Sixième."

He stood. "Henrietta."

She threw her arms around him and wept. " _Merci beaucoup_ , _merci beaucoup_ , _merci_... _merci_..."

Courier Six sighed. Then smiled as he reciprocated her embrace. "You're welcome, Henny."

* * *

Agnès had her arms folded as she watched from the top of one of the north tower of the royal palace the scene unfolding down below on the balcony. Given how stressful the past several days were, this moment she savored for how relaxed her charge was and how relieved and impressed she was that her (she dare say it) 'mentor' had given much needed respite to the Her Royal Highness...the only person in her life she regarded as a close friend. A _true_ friend.

Thud, thud. Creak.

The musketeer captain did not even bother to acknowledge the person coming up from the staircase. " _Oui_ , _L'_ _É_ _minence_?"

"I knew I'd find you here," Mazarin intoned. He approached the window where he followed her gaze down to where the princess was mutely wailing against her familiar's shoulders. "Oh, _Madame Royale_..."

"I assume we have another matter of great importance to discuss?" Agnès asked.

" _Comt_ _è_ Bazaine is either a very skilled bloodhound or a master of deception."

She raised her chin at that. "How so?"

"While I acknowledge his fine oration this morning, and the evidence he has presented so far is absolute, I cannot help but think he is not speaking the whole truth about this...conspiracy we now find ourselves in."

The musketeer captain rolled her eyes. "Of course you would doubt him."

"For good reasons," the cardinal growled. "I have been a mediator for the courtly affairs long enough to know that there is more to this plot with Reconquista that we do not yet know."

"It's bad enough that we have been indirectly assisting in the destruction of our neighbors. Tell me then how deep is the grave we have been digging for ourselves."

Mazarin took a long contemplative moment to answer. "... I have a mind to question _Chevalier_ Michel Ney. He was Mott's right-hand man and would have been his intermediary with the Gallians."

Agnès breathed deep. "You do know that Sixième will be aware of that. He is, you have said, a skilled a bloodhound."

"Inasmuch as he is a captivating speaker. Such words carefully selected and delivered with conviction... I admit that he is far more intelligent than I took him for."

"And, of course, by nature that makes him suspect," snorted the musketeer captain.

Sparing her a brief glare, the cardinal continued, "And if my suspicions were to be proven, then we would have been able to nip another problem in the bud. For several years, _Chevalier_ Ney has been a loyal soldier to the County of Hainault and, by extension, the Crown. I am suspicious why _Comt_ _è_ Bazaine has neglected to charge his own senior commandant for treason, much less levy the same accusation against him by virtue of his service under Mott."

"Perhaps...perhaps he is preparing a trap for him?" That seemed like something the Courier would do, given what Agnès discerned from him in his methods of warfare.

Mazarin nodded. "Perhaps. Still, if _Chevalier_ Ney is indeed guilty of collaborating with the Reconquista, then we might be facing another scandal. And one that could damn _Comt_ _è_ Bazaine and ruin everything we have salvaged today."

The musketeer captain swept her glances to back down to the balcony where Henrietta listened with a tear-stricken face to some humorous anecdote being recounted by her familiar. "I'm sure Sixième has prepared for that possibility."

"I see that your trust in him has grown," observed the advisor.

Agnès felt her steely visage crack. "After what he's done, what he's accomplished with so little... If Henrietta trusts him...then it is safe for me to trust him, too."

"Be careful with that mindset, _Chevalier_ De Milan. You are Her Royal Highness's most trusted security."

"A familiar would never betray his mistress... Would he?"

Cardinal Jules Mazarin did not answer her, instead returning with a curt nod before leaving her alone in the tower.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 23, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: January 9, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 8, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (January 8, 2021) - Ah, crud. I got carried away with this one.
> 
> Originally, this was where Louise and her own familiar were supposed to make an appearance but...things just didn't connect. So I shelved that bit for the time being and ended up with this.


	3. Day XVIII - XXI

_Day XVIII_

Henrietta blinked repeatedly as she tried to comprehend what she had just heard.

In the privacy of her regal chamber with her loyal retainer and trusted advisor, Courier Six announced his clandestine plan of dealing with the fallout from the revelations of Mott's betrayal. Her Royal Highness's herald was going to salvage the Gallian spy network that Jules Mott had been using to indirectly support the Reconquista Coalition in Albion. To do this, the Courier needed Mott's intermediary Chevalier Michel Ney alive and well and back to running messages and reports to the Gallian faction who had pledged allegiance to Lord Oliver Cromwell, the leader of the Albian rebels.

At least, that was what the princess could understand from the briefing. “... Is that what you are implying, Sixième?”

The Courier nodded. “Exactly as you said 'em, Henny.”

“I only recounted your stratagem.”

“But you gotta admit that it's gon' work, right?”

Mazarin finally found his voice. “Indulge me, _Monsieur_ De Hainault. Were you not...drinking...when you conjured this...plot?”

Count Bazaine shrugged. “Eh, one or two bottles worth.”

Agnès loudly exhaled while pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don't you ever abstain?”

“Ah, abstinence and me really don' go hand-in-hand, Angie.”

Henrietta subconsciously began rubbing her temples. “Sixième. _Chevalier_ Ney is under discreet investigation at the moment. Do you honestly expect me or _Son_ _É_ _minence_ to suspend our inquiry into his treasonous acts...so he could continue to commit even more treason?”

Her familiar shook his head. “Nah, nah, you got it all mixed up, Henny. I don't want you to stop your inquiry. I'd rather you finish it as soon as possible to fully confirm that Ney _is_ workin' for the Reconquista. Can't have an innocent man be accused o' somethin' he didn't right do only to have him done gone doin' what he's right damn done been accused of in the first place.”

The other three people in the room gawked back at him.

Courier Six shrugged. “Alright, lemme simplify. I know that Mott's been havin' Ney do his dirty work for them Albian rebels. Now if we have definite proof—say, ah, some right damnin' evidence or a direct confession out o' his mouth that he'd really done gone did what he'd damn been done gone doin'—”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Sixième, can you repeat yourself?”

“Speak clearly, _Monsieur_ De Hainault.”

He waved them off and continued. “Pay attention. So as I was sayin', we convict Ney but not publicly. Keep this all hush-hush else this'll blow over before we get to the fun parts.”

Henrietta, Agnès, and Mazarin shared weary glances before collectively resigning themselves to the rest of the Courier's oddly-worded exposition.

“Now I did my dues and ran background checks on all my people and, let me tell you, Ney has got a lot to loose. That makes him ripe for the pickin'. And when I mean pickin', I mean we give him a deal. He keeps his head and keeps runnin' errands for them Gallians but this time, he'll be funnelin' us insider information on the Reconquista _and_ the Gallians. 'Cause you know, we can't right trust 'em folks to the west.”

The princess once more eyed the other two people in the room before regarding her familiar. “... You intend to have _Chevalier_ Michel Ney acting as some sort of...two-faced liaison...for both our enemies _and_ our allies?”

The Courier made a gesture mimicking a flintlock pistol firing in her direction complete with a wink. “Bingo, Henny. Damn, you come up with the best ideas.”

Henrietta huffed in exasperation at having her words being turned on her again. In her place, Mazarin raised his voice towards her familiar. “And what of our 'dwindling rescues,' as you put it, _Monsieur_ De Hainault?”

The count snickered. “You honestly think we're that poor?”

“The evidence you presented to the Cour Royale—”

“Come on, ole Julio. You've been at this game longer than I have. Don't tell me you can't smell bullshit from a mile away.”

The cardinal glared at him. “So it seems. You lied to the Cour Royale.”

“More like offered half-truths.”

“You are proposing continuing a costly operation that is accelerating the collapse of our fellow Brimiric rulers! The people, the Church, the very creeds that would be violated for this...this farce!”

To this, the mirth in the eyes of Count Bazaine De Hainult burned out only to be replaced by a deep scowl that heralded total silence for the next few moments. “... Julio. To protect Tristain, we have to make sacrifices. Sometimes, it ain't just people's lives that got to be snuffed out in droves. Sometimes, we have to burn our consciences, our morals, our codes of conduct...to get what we need. For the good of everyone, of course.”

Agnès narrowed her eyes. “Sixième. Are you...?”

“This is a cold war, Angie. You got to be even colder to fight it.”

“War?” Henrietta echoed nervously.

“Henny, just 'cause there ain't no active fightin' on the surface don' mean there ain't no war. The Reconquista declared war on us when they swindled our own nobles to bleed us dry through our own domestic policies.” He sat next to her on the settee. “I ain't sayin' we go to war with 'em in the conventional sense. I say we bite 'em back the same way they've been bitin' us in the ass.”

The princess slow filtered her response. “How sure are you that this plan of yours would not fall through? We are referring to meddling with our direct neighbors. Gallia's instability has been a constant source of concern for several years. The loyalties of their lords are notoriously fickle and using their own spies...”

“There's always a risk.” The Courier's lips tweaked into a malevolent smile. “But that's what makes leadin' a nation fun, ain't it?”

“Facing dilemmas like these is not what you would call 'fun.'”

He chuckled. “I'd like to see it that way. Besides, I'm gon' be doin' the heavy-liftin' for the most part.”

The musketeer captain choked back her spittle. “You? A spy?”

“I've done it before, Angie.” He tapped one of his many holstered pistols.

Cardinal Mazarin loudly exhaled, too tired to argue. “How much blood are you going to spill for this?”

“Depends on who's in the way.”

“Sixième,” Henrietta said. “I don't know if I can allow this. If this gets out...if word of this gets out... This will be a scandal like no other. This will be...”

“I know the risks, Henny,” her familiar answered solemnly. “Trust me.”

“I do!” she barked. “I do trust you. But...this is...with what you're suggesting, I don't know if I can...”

He laid his hand on his shoulder, his voice warming. “It's alright, Henny. Look, I'm just sayin' that we need to act now while we have the initiative. Mott's dead but no one's yet actin' on the fact that their prickly little pervert's done croaked and that his lapdog Ney could be compromised.”

The princess met her familiar's piercing green orbs. Then she shifted to Agnès who appeared almost unsure. A turn to her side revealed Cardinal Mazarin furrowing his brows in disagreement.

After a long while, Henrietta stood from the settee. “Sixième, I want a detailed outline of your plan on my desk before the end of the day. I need to...thoroughly review it...before I would allow it.”

To this, the Courier leaned back and stretched his arms over his head with an unnerving smirk stretching across his bearded chin. “Sure thing, _Madame Royale_.”

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XX_

Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière stood alongside her classmates on the open grounds of the Académie Royal Tristain Des Arcanes to welcome the arrival of the new magistrate of County Hainault. Members of the teaching staff were already present along the cobblestone road that crossed the trimmed grass of the main court. At their head, standing on the steps to the main hall, awaited the centenarian wizard Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond in his iconic grey robes, a hand on his long grey beard and the other on his heavy staff.

The petite, pink-haired sophomore held herself as primly as possible under the glaring mid-afternoon sun, thankful that she was not sweating profusely from the heat. She did her best not to glance around too much lest she be reminded of her more successful classmates.

“You seem rather on edge today, Zero,” quipped one of them.

Louise grit her teeth as she growled out her response. “Shut it, Zerbst.”

“I'm just expressing my observations,” cooed the buxom, dark-skinned, red-haired Germanian Kirche Fredericka Von Anhalt-Zerbst. “Though I wonder why we are all being marshaled out here if we are not being graced by any of the royals.”

“Have you no modicum of respect for those above us? Ugh, never mind. Not as though you respect your own confederate nobles.”

The taller, well-endowed girl took the barb in stride, beaming at the discomfort wrought across her companion's face. She was about to speak when she felt something prodding on her side.

Louise allowed herself a slight turn of the head to see the laconic Gallian Tabitha D'Orleans putting away her book as she nudged Kirche with the tip of her staff.

“Behave,” she said. “He's here.”

Sure enough, the count's procession was indeed coming into view. The clatter of hooves resonated across the open yard and heads began to turn to the mounted escorts riding ahead of the ornate carriage carrying the provincial governor.

The pink-haired mage held her breath as her curiosity was finally reaching its peak. And she was not alone in that regard. Freshmen, sophomores, and seniors alike were all left in the dark as to the person that was Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault (she hoped he was not a man she would be ashamed of sharing a name with). Interestingly enough, most of the Académie staff were about as equally ignorant of the man. Out of everyone here, it seemed only Director Osmond and Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert were the most acquainted with their guest, greeting him as though they were old friends.

“So this is the school, eh?” loudly remarked Count Bazaine De Hainault, his massive arms planted on his hips as he regarded the Académie. The tall, bearded man was adorned in finery that, compared to his late predecessor, was more humble and fitting of a wealthy commoner. A simple hat, a long dry coat, and...was he wearing a cuirass underneath all that?

His questionable attire, however, was overshadowed by the fact that when he turned around to regard the assembly of students and staff, he displayed a quartet of glistening steel pistols, saddled over his chest and strapped to his hips. Louise, like many of her classmates, wordlessly scrutinized him for a wand tucked somewhere but could only discern a short sword sheathed by his side and two belts of...brass vials? Perhaps he kept his wand hidden as a sort of reserve?

A nobleman so openly displaying commoner's tools was not unheard of but to see such a display was...rather disconcerting. Certainly not disappointing as this was the man who _killed_ a triangle-class water mage in a sanctioned duel at the royal palace. Certainly not demeaning as he at least held himself to the posture of his station.

“And these here are the new generation o' mages, I see,” he loudly observed, weighted green eyes hovering over student body.

“Indeed,” the director proudly declared. “They hail from all across the continent. Truly a testament to the prestige of the premiere institution for magic and all manner of arcane study in the kingdom and the whole of Halkeginia.”

Count Bazaine, for some reason, appeared less impressed than he should be. “Uh-huh. And this place falls under my jurisdiction.”

“We can discuss the legalities of your rule over the school in my office.”

The magistrate was about to follow the old wizard into the Académie when, after once more surveying the whole lot of students, his eyes bounced back to Louise. In fact, his placid expression morphed into one of curiosity as he narrowed his gaze at her.

This was noticed by everyone. And everyone likewise turned to her.

Louise did not allow herself to shrink under the weight of so many eyes. She had gotten used to it over the past year given her detestable reputation and even more detestable spell-casting. In her mind, she kept repeating the mantra her mother drilled into her when she was but a child: the Rule Of Steel. And the Rule Of Steel did not allow for the youngest daughter of House Vallière to fold under the scrutiny of those around her, even if they were senior nobility who stood at the right hand of royalty.

Before she realized it, she was staring up at the hardened, bearded, and intimidatingly unsmiling face of Count Bazaine De Hainault.

And...dear Founder...was that the smell of...ale? Was this man drunk? Was he seriously intoxicated at this hour of the day!?

“Pink hair,” he muttered.

Louise wanted to say something back but could not find any words. Instead, she let the breeze ruffle her mane, bearing the color she inherited from her mother. That and she could smell his horrid breath. Founder above, the rumors about this man being so heavily indulgent in drink was most uncomfortably true.

“What's your name, kid?”

She breathed through her mouth. “My name is Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière, _Monsieur_ De Hainault.”

He narrowed his eyes at her again. “Louise...Vallière?”

She nodded. “ _Oui, Monsieur._ ”

“Huh. So your Ken's little girl.”

Come again? Louise held her tongue though, opting to stare curiously back at him.

“Is your father...Duke Centurion De La Vallière?”

Huh. Unusual for people to ask her about her father. Normally, her mother's fame would be enough to end formalities but it was rather refreshing to actually feel the influence of the family patriarch every now and then. “ _Oui, Monsieur._ He is my father.”

Count Bazaine's frown morphed into a small grin. “Well, I'll be damned. Never thought I'd actually see you in person.”

This time, Louise was not the only one who was wide-eyed. “P-pardon, _Monsieur_?”

“Your father's always harkin' on and on about his precious daughters. About time I met one of 'em in the flesh. Guess I can see why he's antsy 'bout me meetin' the family but I reckon he ain't got no hand in serendipity.”

Odd and confusing wordplay aside, Louise preened at how highly this man seemed to regard her and without the need to even make a proper first impression too. Her pride wilted however when she began to wonder if he was aware of her...explosions. Or her damned monicker...or her penchant for failure in casting magic. Or maybe he was not properly informed? A part of her pleaded to Brimir above that should this man be aware of her failures, that he was still accepting of her...even if by virtue of his association with her parents.

Already the whispers from the other students began to reach her ears and she did her best to restore the pride on her face. That pride once more faded when she noticed the man walking away from her to regard another of her classmates.

“You don't seem like a local,” remarked Count Bazaine.

“ _Non, Monsieur_ De Hainault,” Kirche replied with a low bow. “I hail from Germania. My name is...”

Louise had to physically pinch herself to keep from yelling in frustration that she was, once more, being outshined by her more attractive, more well-endowed, and more seductive arch-nemesis.

* * *

Siesta finally laid eyes on her supposed would-be employer. Standing alongside her fellow maids in the main hall of the Académie, they presented themselves before him as part of his tour of the premises.

Count Bazaine De Hainault was as much of an intimidating giant as Chef Marteau, complete with the bushy beard, the bulky arms, and the tired expression on the face of a man who seemed to actually know manual labor...and seen more than he needed to. Yet, unlike the posh and elan of the aristocracy, the new governor opted to openly carry several muskets and a short sword on his person. Maybe the rumor about him being a commoner incapable of magic was true...or maybe he just hid his wand somewhere and preferred to use magic as a last resort.

“Ah, shit.”

Eyes went wide at the profanity so shamelessly uttered by the royal messenger. Director Osmond and Professor Colbert—oddly the only two people in the entire school who personally knew the guest—turned to regard the count who appeared to be...chastising himself.

“Is something the matter?” asked the director.

“Eh, I just remembered.” The count began looking over the maids, causing half of them to straighten themselves too much. “Which one o' y'all goes by the name of... Shit, what was her name again? Damn it. I just know that I'm supposed to be reappropriatin' one o' you.”

Most of the staff were still reeling from the blatant expression of such vulgar language that Professor Colbert had to answer for them. “You are correct, _Monsieur_ De Hainault. One of our servants here was supposed to have been relegated to the household of your predecessor. Her contract had been purchased the day before you, erm, dueled him at the capital.”

“Alright. So which one of 'em here is she then?”

The moment followed in stiff silence. But Siesta, swallowing her fear and steeling herself, stepped forward with her head raised. “That would be me, _Monsieur_ De Hainault. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Siesta.”

“Siesta. Right.” The count nodded, almost ignoring her curtsy entirely to silently chastise himself. “I'll keep you in mind. Keep forgettin' 'bout your paperwork. You, uh, you keep doin' what you're doin' here and I'll get to sortin' out your contract as soon as I can find it.”

Now even Director Osmond had to raise a brow at that even as Professor Colbert sputtered out his next query. “You _lost_ her contract?”

The count shrugged. “I'll find it eventually. Got more important things to deal with. Besides, got way too many maids at the manor.”

Siesta almost beamed with hope. Maybe there was a strong chance she could keep her job here at the Académie! Then again, that meant finding her contract which, apparently, was misplaced. No physical contract meant her continued employment was on shaky ground.

Professor Colbert, being one of the few noblemen who actually sympathized with the plebes, interceded for her. “Oh. Well, in that case, then maybe we can come to an agreement regarding her services...”

Only for the magistrate to absently wave him off. “Eh, I could always find somethin' for her to do. Gon' be a lot of heavy liftin' comin' up the next couple weeks anyway...”

The maids subtly deflated. And Siesta eased back into her place, her hopes dimmed and her head bowed. Oh, well. At least, there was still a chance she might be saved from this. So far, there was no mention of any of the more deviant proclivities that some of the gentry were more inclined towards. Maybe serving under Count Bazaine was not going to be so bad.

* * *

The meeting was disrupted by an explosion.

Académie secretary Marie Justine Longueville had gotten used to them after the first month and by now, she was ready to pay the intrusion no mind. After all, she was busy standing in (and listening closely) on the discussion between Director Osmond, Professor Colbert, and Count De Hainault. While she already gotten a solid grasp to the other two personalities in the room, the third one was an enigma; she had neither heard of a Françoise Achille Bazaine nor recalled any knight-errant stirring up trouble in Germania or anywhere on Halkeginia.

Then again, that must have been before her time—before she started becoming active in the underground machinations of the known world. Still, after the infamous duel with Jules Mott and the various other reported oddities and unusual closeness with Princess Henrietta De Tristain, it was clear that there was more to Chevalier Bazaine than anyone had yet to know.

And today she learned that his reflexes bested even a trained battle-mage. The man suddenly stood up, piercing green eyes glinting with the sharpness of a sword, his heavy hand on the pommel of one of his many pistols, while he paced towards the window behind the Académie director, his attention focused solely on the source of the blast.

A puff of smoke wafted out of one of the classrooms in the Académie's Tower of Fire.

“What the hell's goin' on down there?” demanded the magistrate.

To which, Osmond let out a long sigh before gesturing at his guest to seat himself. “One of our students...has an unfortunate case regarding her...practical application of magic.”

The count appeared unconvinced and remained standing, leaning close to the window sill where he continued to observe the commotion. “Explain.”

“A sophomore. _Ma'amselle_ Louise De La Vallière. Her spell-casting results in explosions.”

The mention of Louise's name seemed to have shocked Her Royal Highness's herald into some form of normalcy. Because, other than the surprised glare and the fact that he asked the centenarian wizard to repeat himself, Count De Hainault eased back onto the cushioned chair in contemplative thought.

“So, you're tellin' me,” he worded slowly, “that Ken's little girl creates...explosions.”

“Ken?”

“Duke De La Vallière.”

Interesting, Longueville noted. So this man also personally knew Duke Centurion De La Vallière.

“Ah, yes,” the director replied. “His daughter is indeed capable of nothing but explosions. No matter the spell, simple or sophisticated. The end result is always a blast.”

“As in boom-boom, smolderin'-crater, fire-and-brimstone-and-smoke kind of explosions. Right?”

The other three exchanged glances before the director nodded. “Yes. Though not in the manner as you have described but still in the same vein. Destruction to school property, physical harm to those within its radius.”

The count raised his brow. “... Really now.”

“Rest assured. This is a common occurrence. Judging by the intensity of what we have heard, it is safe to say that no serious harm has done.”

“Oh? An explosion that don' harm nobody? I mean, harm is still harm, serious or no.”

“Luckily, _Ma'amselle_ Vallière's magic is largely contained with only the most grievous injuries being the temporary incapacitation of some of our teaching staff.”

“Define 'grievous,' Ozzy.”

Uncomfortable nickname aside, Osmond continued to list some of the notable the incidents involving Louise and her explosions, some of which Longueville had to personally run damage control. Throughout the discussion, she noted how unnervingly impressed the magistrate seemed. Colbert did not hide their discomfort at the smile creeping on the edges of the count's lips and, admittedly, neither did the Académie secretary.

At the end of it, Osmond had to ask his guest, “What are your thoughts on this? You seem to be taking this far too well.”

“Well, I just don' see how all them explosions are considered failures.”

“A concussive blast coming out of an attempt at conjuring a simple fireball is not technically a success, _monsieur_ ,” rebutted the bald professor.

“Technically, she didn't cast a fireball. But she done cast somethin' that I find to be more useful and far more potent.”

To this, the director's aged old face hardened into one of unforgiving scrutiny, a rare sight that Longueville had to admit made her wary of the breadth of the centenarian wizard's true magical power. “I find your insinuations disconcerting, _Monsieur_ De Hainault.”

Count Bazaine laughed. “I ain't one for sittin' on my ass signin' papers, Ozzy. You'll have to forgive this old war dog for his sentiments. Especially when he can sniff out a prospective soldier.”

Professor Colbert growled. “You cannot be seriously suggesting that _Ma'amselle_ Vallière be—”

“Oh come off it, Baldy,” barked the magistrate. “You know just as well as I do the deadliness of somethin' like that on the battlefield. Ten, twenty, thirty fightin' men packed into a single formation. Wave your stick, ground underneath 'em goes boom. No more enemy cohort advancin' on your position.”

Osmond had his hands planted firmly on his desk as he regarded the count with a stern glower. “ _Ma'amselle_ Vallière is here to study the beneficial applications of magic and to master her arcane craft. While I admit that her endeavors in the latter department are in need of dire work, I will not entertain any attempts to have her abilities abused.”

“Here's the thing, pal.” The count leaned over with an equal glare. “I ain't gon' be the only one who'll see how useful that girl is in a fight. While you can talk me down and threaten me, I don' think you can have the same amount o' success with others who're damn well determined to get what they want.”

“I have the full authority of the Crown to pursue everything in my power to protect my students, _Monsieur_ De Hainault.”

“That's mighty admirable of you, Ozzy. But we all know that explosions ain't just flukes. We all got enough years in us to know a bit o' boom-boom goes a long way in changin' the course of history.”

The moment passed in tense silence with the two men silently pressuring the other. Colbert was of the same mind with his superior while Longueville herself felt caught in the middle of a storm. Though she weathered the atmosphere until the count once again relaxed against the velvet on his chair. In the back of her mind, she was starting to understand the count's argument though she doubted how useful a girl like Louise would be in an actual battle, much less a duel.

Clink. Pour. Sip.

Count Bazaine was savoring his goblet of wine with a small smile. Then he regarded his hosts. “So, correct if I'm wrong, but, I believe that, ah, familiar summonin' thing is comin' up soon, right?”

“Of course,” Osmond replied neutrally, his unsmiling gaze never wavering. “The Invocation Familière Sanctifiée is due at the end of next week.”

“Right, right. Always a nice surprise to see what comes out o' the aether, y'know?”

Colbert cleared his throat. “There is no telling as to the variety of what would respond to the student's call.”

“Familiars,” snickered the royal messenger while swirling his drink, a special variety kept hidden by the staff in the cupboards. “Imagine how useful an animal'd be if he had the brains of a human, eh?”

The director replied slowly. “Yes. I can imagine.”

Meanwhile, the humble Académie secretary, remained meekly impassive. Though, behind her spectacles, her mind whirling about. Count De Hainault was proving to be acutely intelligent and abrasively reasonable. He regarded matters through a more pragmatic lens, preferring less reliance on magic (or more practical usage thereof).

Yet, there was one thing she began to wonder... There was a lot more she was missing here and she was damn well sure of it. She caught the subtle stiffness in Osmond and Colbert at the mention of familiars. And some of her contacts had mentioned the rumor that Princess Henrietta had partaken in the Invocation earlier than usual. She would have dismissed it had it not been for the fact that Count Bazaine De Hainault suddenly emerged as a prominent figure in the Cour Royale at around the same time the royal partook in the summoning ritual. Unless the royal's familiar was kept hidden in the royal bestiary or maybe the beast was ill-suited to be made public or... Could it be that...?

No.

That was ridiculous. Utterly blasphemous if such a theory were to be taken seriously. Very dangerous. Very damaging to the Tristainian Crown. And, as a clandestine agent of the Reconquista Coalition, Marie Justine Longueville was going to uncover the truth behind these matters that could shake this kingdom.

* * *

Louise was on her way back to her dormitory after a long soak in the Académie baths.

Another day, another explosion.

And maybe another serious embarrassment. After all, Count De Hainault was present on the school grounds and he would have no doubt heard—or felt—her damned failure. So, after enduring the relentless, venomous taunting of her classmates, she retreated to the baths after dinner to...get away from it all.

At least the others at the baths gave her space, pretending that the pool she chose to immerse herself in never existed. Not that they wanted to socialize with her. Her fellow sophomores avoided her by habit. Most of the freshmen were driven off by her reputation while the seniors had mostly retired early. As if she needed their company. She liked the solitude...and the isolation...and the absence of someone to have a casual conversation with.

Despite being left to her lonesome, Louise felt herself fortunate that one of the maids was available to help carry her things back to her quarters. Not that she needed someone to walk back to her room with. Even if it was not their station to converse with a noble.

And so the two of them silently meandered the corridors a few hours past sundown when they came across none other than Count Bazaine De Hainault himself...oddly without any guards or anyone to accompany him. More odd that he was still here. And even more strangely, as soon as he saw them, he shifted his gait directly towards the two, the candlelight glistening off the pommels of his steel pistols holstered across his body.

Louise heard the maid beside her muffle a squeak as they bowed low before the provincial governor.

“Good evening, _Monsieur_ De Hainault,” curtsied the two girls.

“ _Ma'amselle_ Vallière,” the man started roughly, his breath rancid from the amount of liquor he must have imbibed, “how're your classes today?”

The pink-haired mage blinked wide. What an odd way to start a conversation. Certainly not unwelcome but did he really have to be such a drunkard? “My classes are going rather well, _monsieur_. Thank you for asking.”

He nodded. “That's good, that's good. Nothin' like a good ole' explosion to spice things up, eh?”

Louise froze. Founder above, he knows! What would he think of her now!? His association with her father, and by extension her family, and his standing in the Cour Royale, his rumored personal relationship with Her Royal Highness herself... Such a man of influence who she hoped would be her bulwark against her classmates could very well leave her be! She had to say something but ended up stammering an unintelligible response.

To which the man laughed. “It ain't always a bad thing, kid. Just gotta fine tune 'em, y'know? You're gettin' there.”

Now the girl was gawking up at the count with the most shocked expression on her face. Was he...was he complimenting her? Was he encouraging her to continue with her...failures? Or maybe he was just spouting some drunken nonsense with how much he reeked of fine spirits.

“Hey, no matter what your pals say, you still got somethin' in you. Somethin' big that'll make you great. Explosions don' mean you can't do magic, after all. Otherwise, you'd be on your ass out there in the wilds, ripe for them wolves.”

Louise gulped. That was one (crude) way of putting it.

“And if ever that does happen...” He knelt down to her level, giving her a smile. “You're always welcome at my estate.”

And Miss Vallière almost felt her spirit wilt up. 'Welcome at his estate?' What did he mean by that...? Was he referring to...? Oh, dear Founder! What about her engagement to Viscount Wardes!? Did her father have a hand in this? What was...?

“Tristain needs some damn good soldiers,” he said.

She blinked. “S-soldiers?”

He stood up now and was regarding the maid. “You. You're Siesta, right?”

The maid in question straightened herself and bowed low. “ _Oui, monsieur_.”

“Yeah. Lemme get back to you on your contract. See if there's somethin' I can have you right doin' over there. Could use some extra hands with the business, is all.”

With that, the count patted them both on their shoulders before strolling off. Both student and servant watched him vanish off into the outside where his carriage was waiting, his footfalls heavy but stroll almost unmoved by how much strong drink he must have consumed. And both remained rooted to where they were, comprehending what they had just experienced, before slowly eying each other.

“Maid,” Louise began slowly. “What did he mean by contract?”

The black-haired woman bowed timidly. “H-he was supposed to be my new e-employer, _ma'amselle_.”

“Oh? Yet you still work here.”

“My contract was purchased by _Monsieur_ De Hainault's predecessor.”

The sophomore softened her glare. Everyone knew about the late Jules Mott and his disgusting proclivities. And while it was a sad affair that he had passed, no one was shedding any tears. In fact, some were even grateful that he was killed so gloriously in a duel sanctioned by the royals and the entire Cour Royale. And, Louise quickly realized, the two of girls had somehow curried the favor of Mott's killer.

Whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing was debatable. And those thoughts about him made it difficult for Miss Vallière (or the maid even, she later found out) to get any proper sleep that night.

* * *

“Agnès?” Henrietta asked as she absently stared up at the starry night sky. “How is Sixième's training regimen?”

The musketeer captain took a moment to compose her reply. “He certainly has hardened us. Sharpened our aim, improved our endurance, encouraged camaraderie. We are most definitely better than we were before.”

The princess nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. It has been very effective.”

After a while, Agnès allowed herself to break her facade as she sat beside her charge on the bench in the royal conservatory, the glass walls and reflecting their visages across the constellations. “ _Madame Royale_ , are you alright?”

“You know I'm not,” Henrietta groused bitterly. With Cardinal Mazarin busy in his office as usual and Her Majesty retiring early for the evening, there was no one else here to see the princess break royal decorum.

“What can I do to help alleviate your burden?”

“You don't have to do anything,” the princess insisted. “It's just...it's just Sixième's methods...his plans for the Reconquista, his machinations with the Cour Royale, his goals for doing all this... It bothers me. It bothers me so much that I lose sleep.”

Normally, her retainer would release filtered vitriol towards whoever was giving her liege such hardship. Yet, this was Courier Six they were talking about. The man was a different breed. Some would say uncultured, barbaric, animalistic... Agnès would silently agree with her subordinates that, despite the respect and begrudging adoration they held towards him, the Courier was a monster.

An intelligent, agile, godless monster.

And she trusted him as much as she trusted the princess. Because the princess trusted him even more. Because he was her familiar... But could a familiar betray its master?

“Did you know that he came from a place that had been burned to ash and buried under sand for two hundred years?” Henrietta began morosely. “His ancestors crafted these weapons that...could level entire nations. And they used them very liberally in a great war. The result was a...was a 'waste-land' where the air, the water, and the plants were poisoned for centuries to come.”

The musketeer captain knew her charge well enough to simply let her ramble on. But hearing such unbelievable things... Surely, no such place could exist, right?

“... I cried myself to sleep when I first heard it,” the princess continued. “How we human beings could be so wicked, so evil, so...heartless to be willing to exterminate each other over...over anything, really...”

“ _Madame Royale_ , surely Sixième is exaggerating.”

Henrietta regarded her for a moment, her reddened eyes completing her sad smile. “His scars, his voice when he talks, his eyes that look past me into the abyss... He's not a man to lie about such things.”

“ _Madame Ro_ —” Agnès sighed and squeezed her hand. “Henrietta. Please, you're tired. You should get some rest.”

“I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt I was in a desert. I was thirsty, hungry, and sick with something. I looked down and saw my...saw my own hands...rotting apart. The flesh peeling off, muscle and bone cooking under the sun. And around me...these ruins of cities whose towers were made of steel and stone and broken glass...”

“Henrietta.”

“Agnès, his familiar runes,” the princess croaked. “I think they're affecting me. Because I saw what he saw... In my dreams, I see what he does, who he sees, what he eats, where he goes... It's a horrible place. To have to be born there, to live a life like that... I just can't...”

The musketeer captain took Her Royal Highness in her arms so she could weep silently. If what Henrietta said about the Courier was true, then she had nothing but the highest regard for him in the same way that she discreetly feared him.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XXI_

“Another order?” queried Duchess Karin Désirée De La Vallière.

Her husband, Duke Centurion De La Vallière, eased back from his desk in his study with a tired sigh. The letter from his 'brotherly associate' Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault was, simply put, rather vexing. He would have burned it if the uncomfortably salacious message did not end with a serious request for more wine. Specifically, the new royal messenger asked for sixteen barrels of refined spirits squeezed out of the vineyards spread across the fertile meadows within the Vallière Duchy.

“Yes. The payment for all this is on its way as we speak.”

Karin raised her brow. “I never took _Monsieur_ De Poitiers to be so heavily invested in drink.”

Centurion laughed. “No, he is not, _ma ch_ _é_ _rie_. Rather, this is from our new client.”

“Oh?”

“He has a preference for our stronger varieties, particularly the flavors of honey, beets, and juniper.”

“And who is this new prospective customer?”

For a moment, the duke paused. He considered the next set of words he was going to say, given who he was married to. But the day had been long and he had just arrived from Tristania after another grueling session with the Cour Royale regarding Gallian spies in Tristain. Then again, things had gotten a bit more complicated with the recent machinations of Her Royal Highness's herald. Or, in the words of his more disgruntled peers, the princess's 'precious pompous pet.'

Centurion chortled to himself. “Our new family friend.”

To this, Karin gave him a scrutinizing look. “Is that so?”

“My dear, do you recall a particular session of the Cour Royale not too long ago involving a certain...reputable character?”

“You mean _Comt_ _è_ Bazaine De Hainault?”

The duke curled his lips into a thin smile upon seeing the scowl tugging on his wife's lips. “ _Monsieur_ De Hainault wishes to replace his predecessor's preference for women with wine. Copious amounts of it.”

The duchess turned to the window in thought. “... I see.”

Centurion followed her gaze across the sprawling meadows that reached past the rolling hills of their family estate. “Something on your mind?”

Karin tapped her chin for a moment. “This request...arrived today?”

“A scant few hours before I arrived from the capital, yes.”

“Ah. Well, it just so happened that our neighbors in Germania have recently been sending caravans of supplies to one of our fellow lords.”

To this, he adjusted his monocle. “Oh?”

His wife nodded. “Yes. Saltpeter, pitch, and sulfur from our friends at House Anhalt-Zerbst. Steel, iron, timber, and stone from our fellow peers under the Crown. Masons, artisans, craftsmen, smiths, and laborers from across the kingdom. All heading to one place.”

“Is someone building a city?”

“In Hainault? There has been no motion towards urban development in any of the communities there much less any attempt to restore some of the ancient Romalian forts dotting our lands. Not even Mons is seeking to add more homes. And I doubt the Académie would need such supplies unless they were considering significantly expanding their facilities.”

The duke stoked his beard, hearing a nagging suspicion that he dare not entertain. “Perhaps _Directeur_ Osmond is opening a new curriculum? Or one of his inventive instructors was experimenting again.”

“With so much supplies and hired help?”

“You've seen how maverick Old Osmond is. Not to mention some of his staff, _Professeur_ Colbert included.”

The duchess turned to him with eyes focused like a hawk. “... Or perhaps, all these deliveries were never meant for the Académie.”

Centurion, upon seeing Karin's glare narrowing further against him, decided to play coy. “Who else could be building...a new...settlement... Oh dear.”

“Centurion, _mon ch_ _é_ _ri_ ,” his wife began with the cold, steel voice that made her one of the most feared mage in the whole of Halkeginia. “Tell me more about your 'brotherly associate.'”

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 6, 2021**

**LAST EDITED: January 19, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 15, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (January 15, 2021) - Louise finally makes her appearance. Granted, the original draft had her showing up with her own familiar but things change over the course of writing.
> 
> I also appreciate how much you all seem to like this story. And some of my readers may find some character similarities with my other crossover story involving Fallout: New Vegas entitled 'Pit Stop.' Let me say that the Courier of this story and the Courier of 'Pit Stop' aren't exactly the same but they do share a lot of things in common.


	4. Day XXIII - XXIX

_Day XXIII_

Henrietta could not believe her eyes.

Before her, atop Mazarin's varnished yew desk, lay unfurled a comprehensive list of possible agents currently serving the Reconquista Coalition or any similar proxies within both Tristain and Gallia. The cardinal was already poring through the names, his aged facade marked with heavy scrutiny. Beside him, Agnès was running through a copy of the same list, her knuckles no doubt whitened with rage underneath her steel gauntlets. All the while, Courier Six casually leaned against the bookshelf with a goblet of hard ale.

The princess remained rooted where she stood, her mind recovering from the shock that came over where after recognizing a name near the top of the list.

She slowly turned to her familiar. “No one knows that we know. Right?”

The Courier shook his head.

“All this time,” Henrietta began, “ _Monsieur_ De Wardes was...was working against us.”

“That traitor,” hissed the musketeer captain. “We should have him summoned here where he will be put on trial, defrocked, tossed into the dungeons and—”

“That is not your place to say, _Chevalier_ De Milan,” chastised Mazarin. “We cannot fully trust the Cour Royale to act on our behalf with regards to _Monsieur_ De Wardes. He is well connected with House Gramont and House Vallière and he commands the loyalty the Corps De Chevaliers Griffons. As well, there is no telling how entrenched he is with His Majesty De Gallia.”

Agnès swallowed the lump in throat as she bowed slightly. “Pardon my impatience, _L'_ _É_ _minence_. But I must insist on the soonest possible action in light of these developments.”

“ _Monsieur_ De Hainault, how sure are you of your sources?” interrogated the cardinal.

Count Bazaine swirled his goblet. “Sure as the Word o' Almighty God.”

Mazarin regarded his liege. “ _Madame Royale_?”

Henrietta stewed in silence. She eased onto one of the vacant chairs and stared emptily at the books lining the shelves. It took her a long while to find her voice. “... Sixième, how long has _Monsieur_ De Wardes been involved with the Reconquista?”

“Accordin' to my sources, 'bout close to a year now.”

“Before Cromwell began his offensive against House Tudor?” Mazarin interjected.

“That's what them finicky bastards said. Granted, they're still a work in progress but they don' seem to be lyin' 'bout that one.”

“What do you mean by 'work in progress'?” Agnès asked hesitantly.

“I'm still workin' on 'em. Some folks are just plain ole stubborn.”

The princess was not liking what she was hearing. “Sixième, tell me how exactly you retrieved all this information.”

Courier Six raised his brow at her. “D'you really want to know?”

She shook her head. “I only need to be assured that we can act on solid information gleaned from very reliable sources. I require assurance that this is all legitimate.”

He snickered. “Always the cautious one, eh, Henny. Well, let's just say that information gatherin' can be a...right messy business. A really, really messy business.”

“Pardon, _Madame Royale_ ,” Mazarin interjected. “But I would rather _Monsieur_ De Hainault spare us the details of his interrogation methods. We still have to address the matter of these traitors within our midst.”

Silence.

The Courier coughed. “I mean, if y'all ain't gon' do anythin', I could go ahead and set 'em all to rights.”

Henrietta's eyes went wide. “No! No assassinations! No proscriptions, not yet!”

“Easy, Henny,” he snickered. “Nothin' too drastic just yet. I mean, scum as they are for, y'know, betrayin' us, they could be useful. Like our ole pal Michel Ney. He delivered.”

“Under duress?” Agnès sniped.

“He still delivered. Tough son of a bitch that one but every man's got his breakin' point.”

“Putting the dungeons under your chateau to use?”

“I'll neither confirm nor deny what you just said, Angie.”

“Sixième,” the princess harped, “I assume _Chevalier_ Ney is still loyal to you then?”

Her familiar shrugged. “Ney's got a lot to loose and an olive branch o' leniency is the best thing that he's gon' get in exchange for him keepin' at what he's been doin' all this time. And out of all them ne'er-do-wells runnin' round our kingdom, _Chevalier_ Michel Ney is one of them diamonds in a dusty ole gold mine.”

“So what exactly do you intend to do with these spies?” inquired Mazarin.

The Courier shuffled over, the steel of his pistols glinting under the candlelight. “Either we turn 'em like we did Ney or we make sure they won't be a problem anymore.”

Heads turned to the royal.

Henrietta's gaze drifted to the patterns on the carpet for a long while before she regarded her familiar. “... Sixième, I'd prefer if we could avoid any more unneeded bloodshed.”

“Can't guarantee that, Henny. But I'll try.”

That response was not very assuring. Then again, neither was what she was going to say. “If all other means have been exhausted then...then you have my permission to put them to the sword. The same with you, Agnès. Any threats to me or the kingdom, if they are beyond reason, then you are allowed to put them down by any means. But make haste with your tasks and keep yourselves clandestine.”

Her retainer pressed her fist to her chest with an eager glint in her eye. “Understood, _Madame Royale._ I will pass on your instructions to the rest of the Corps.”

“It has been awhile since we had to resort to these methods,” the cardinal remarked morosely. “This will be seen as nothing short of proscription by some members of the Cour Royale, _Madame Royale_.”

“I will take the risk,” the princess responded resolutely before taking the goblet from her familiar's gloved hand and replacing it back onto the end table with the half-empty wine bottle. “You should really stop drinking so much.”

Courier Six put on a faux grimace. “Come on now, Henny. I need my fuel if you want me workin' at my best.”

“I need you at your best and your heavy reliance on hard spirits is more of a nuisance than a benefit.”

“Look, I can't make any promises but...well, I can't really cut down on my poison.”

Henrietta sighed. “I don't want you to poison yourself before we get any progress with this. Now, with regards to our spy problem. You already have the loyalty of _Chevalier_ Ney and a few others from Gallia. Who do you intend to turn this time?”

The Courier snickered while lightly scratching at the back of his gloved hand upon which were etched his familiar runes. “A lot more. Includin' someone near and dear.”

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XXVII_

Louise liked to believe herself above petty gossip but the newest round of rumors echoing off the halls of the Académie made her quite nervous...even though she had no reason to be. Besides, she had more important things on her mind. Such as her studies, her attempts to control her errant spell-casting, and the upcoming Invocation Familière Sanctifiée which, if she were to completely botch that one, would result in her expulsion and the consequently painful relinquishment of her membership in the nobility.

Such a possibility was so disturbing that the pink-haired sophomore had to pause in her stride just to calm her mind.

_'You're always welcome at my estate.'_

What did Count De Hainault mean by that? Was he offering her an olive branch of hope? Or did he pity her so much that he was doing her father a favor by providing a means to salvage her dignity...by having her serve him as...something hopefully not detestable...?

_'Tristain could always use more soldiers.'_

That did not make as much sense to her as it caused her a bit of anxiety when she mulled over it. Her explosions did cause damages and physical harm. And offensive spells were meant to injure, kill, and destroy given that most of them were crafted for the purpose of fighting wars. To an extent, her explosions could be considered in that realm of spell-casting which meant that she was technically capable of magic. Harmful, detrimental, unrecognizable magic. But magic nonetheless.

Did this mean that the count was suggesting she hone her craft less as a traditional mage but more as a...an unconventional battle-mage? Did the governor want her to...?

No. She cannot think such things right now. She had to focus and—

“Beautiful sunset, don't you think, Zero?”

Oh Founder above.

Kirche leaned against the pillar with her arms conveniently folded under her bust. “Makes for a lovely painting. Even better being the perfect backdrop for a lovelier time spent with some of the loveliest hearts.”

Louise grunted dispassionately. “What do you want, Zerbst?”

“Just making for friendly conversation.”

As if you were every friendly, the pink-haired girl mentally scoffed. “I have better things to do.”

“Oh? As though there's nothing better than trying to come up with something out of nothing.”

Breathe in, breathe out. “At least I put in effort instead of using my body so salaciously to skip hardship for well-earned results.”

To this, the eldest daughter of the Germanian House Anhalt-Zerbst grinned like a vixen. “It works wonders, actually. Though I doubt you'd ever succeed even if you try. No one in their right mind would want to bother with someone who reminds them of their own daughter. Well, unless they are not in their right mind, of course.”

“At least people favor me out of the goodness of their heart than out of the tightness of their pants!” she barked, almost mortified at the horrendous notion that Professor Colbert and Director Osmond were kind to her out of more base desires. Wait. Did that mean that Count De Hainault was also...?

“Really? I sometimes wonder when the day would come when certain people's patience would run out and you would, inevitably, see yourself somewhere else other than here.”

“Even if that were to happen, at least I have the favor of _Monsieur_ De Hainault!” And just like that, it was too late for Louise to take back her outburst.

Oddly, Kirche did not react in the manner she expected. For a brief moment, something other than malice or mirth flashed in the redhead's eyes (panic?) before quickly snuffed them out with another condescending smirk. “You really think the governor cares that much for you, dear Zero?”

Did he? “He sees potential in me!”

The Germanian pursed her lips. “Mmm~, yes. Potential.”

“Ugh! Not that kind of potential, you shameless whore!”

“To insinuate such things is scandalous, need I remind you,” Kirche snickered back.

“He is _not_ that kind of person!” Louise practically screamed, ignorant of the attention she was getting from some of the students passing by.

“Oh? Do you know him personally?”

“No! But I know that he has more dignity and integrity than any of your so-called nobles in that backwater confederation of yours.”

The Germanian raised her brow. “Have you not heard? _Herr_ Von Hainault may be so much alike to my kinsmen than you'd think.”

“He would never!”

“Never do what, Zero?” interjected Guiche De Gramont who happened to suspend his philandering ways to torment her. “Openly insult the Cour Royale? Defile the homes of nobility with the filth of uncultured commoners? Compromise with criminals? Invest our taxed coin in illicit trade? Burn our fellow nobles at the stake?”

Louise finally noticed the small crowd that had gathered. Not uncommon given how often her arguments with her arch-nemesis tended to get loud. But the fact that Guiche unusually came off a little too hostile made her pause and the tone in his voice somewhat snuffed out a bit of her burning anger.

“Zero, don't pretend to be blind to a man who is suspect from the start,” the blond scion of House Gramont declared. “Not only has he abused his position for personal gain but he is using his duties to bring good noblemen to heel.”

“You're just blindly following along with hearsay,” retorted the pink-haired girl.

This time, it was Guiche's fiancé who responded. “Hearsay isn't hearsay when there is truth to them.”

Louise narrowed her glare at the blonde Montmorency Margarita La Fère De Montmorency. “What truths do you even have?”

The water mage frowned. “Almost every aristocrat the count has visited has somehow suffered great misfortune. Arrested, fallen grievously ill, or befalling an 'accident' that they would never wake up from. And the Crown is turning a blind eye to all this, instead reaping the bounty left behind.”

“Th-there has to be a logical reason for s-such misfortunes!”

Montmorency huffed. “These fallen nobles have had their possessions confiscated by either the Crown or the count himself. Additionally, countless witnesses from the peasantry to the nobility to even visiting dignitaries all saw weapons and armor being stockpiled at Chateau Hainault. And there are credible reports of former soldiers, mercenaries, and disgraced mages riding to this county looking for work specifically from one person.”

“He's offering redemption to brigands!”

“Redemption in the form of service to a man who acts like a brigand about to go to war with his own neighbors? Don't be delusional, Zero. Of course, there is also the suspicious relationship he has with Her Royal Highness herself. To me, that means nothing but a scandalous affair—”

“Don't you dare speak ill of Her Royal Highness!” bellowed the furious pink-haired sophomore.

This shocked the crowd but none more so than Guiche who stepped closer. “Zero! Don't you dare raise your voice towards my darling!”

“As if you really care for her with all the other girls you flirt with!”

The water mage closed the gap. “Shut up, Zero!”

The pink-haired girl glared right into her eyes. “You shut up, you dried-up wellspring!”

“Squeaks the petulant child who refuses to leave!”

“That's rich coming from someone acting like one—”

_Whoosh!_

The two girls suddenly found themselves suspended in the air by a powerful current of wind. Heads quickly turned to a mildly vexed Tabitha D'Orleans. The blue-haired girl had her staff held up, keeping the air currents spinning around her fellow sophomores who were powerless to orient themselves with respect to the floor. They remained hovering in the air until the stoic monocled Gallian felt assured that there would not be any more petty catfights happening tonight.

* * *

“My, my, Zero sure has a short fuse,” Kirche yawned as she dipped into one of the steamy pools of the Académie baths later that evening. “I swear that girl should just tender her resignation from the school before someone gets seriously injured.”

“Too harsh,” replied Tabitha who sat in the corner, her shoulders barely rising out of the water.

The redhead harrumphed. “She escalated it. In all honesty, Louise really should know when to back down. It stops being fun when she starts taking things too seriously.”

Had Kirche been less focused on herself as she bathed, she may have noticed Tabitha rolling her eyes at her.

“Still, I am rather curious,” the Germanian continued. “ _Herr_ Von Hainault surely sees Louise as more than some extension of her parents' legacy that he could exploit, right?”

The Gallian raised her brow.

Kirche continued, “I mean, the reason why he fancied getting to know some of us personally is because of our families...or at least what our families have. It's pretty obvious. Like, when he approached me, he was basically asking what we produce and how much they cost. And from my family's recent letters, he's already placed deliveries from our forges back home.”

“Stockpiling.”

“You really think so?”

Tabitha regarded her with a degree of seriousness that almost never manifested unless someone's life was on the line. “Suspicious.”

“I know. For what reason would one of Tristain's lords hoard all these supplies? His manor's already as big as it is. Mons is big enough to see no reason to expand. There doesn't seem to be anything going on in this county that would merit such an influx of raw materials and select services.”

“Princess?”

The Germanian paused in her musings. “... You're right. _Herr_ Von Hainault is the royal messenger, submitting directly to the royal family. Tabitha, are you seriously suggesting that the rumor about Her Royal Highness being romantically involved with him are true?”

Tabitha responded with a frown. “Albion.”

“What does Albion have to...? Oh. Oh my. _Vom Gr_ _ü_ _nder_ , is he preparing for war...against Albion?”

“Contingency.”

“So not just Albion but...”

Tabitha broke her facade for a bare moment to regard Kirche with a look of primal fear.

To this, the Germanian let out a gasp. “He's preparing for all possible scenarios. War with Albion, war with Gallia, war with Germania, war with Romalia even...”

“Civil war here?”

“In Tristain? I...” Kirche turned away with clear discomfort. “I don't doubt the possibility. What with the tensions between the kingdoms and the saber-rattling and the posturing going on...”

“Connections.”

“That's true. No doubt, he's buttered up any of those he delivers messages to. He is Her Royal Highness's herald, after all.”

As the two best friends ruminated on their theories, someone else had taken to remain after her bath to hear the rest of it.

* * *

Montmorency never really hated Louise.

Far from it, she was at most only vexed to anger by her explosions. But to actually wish grievous harm (and potential death) towards her classmate? Nonsense! She was a daughter of nobility; she did not stoop to such pettiness that made commoners wallow in the dungheap of their self-imposed misery. Hence why she had to step in to mediate between Guiche and whoever it was he antagonized because Brimir knows her fiancé would do anything to salvage his pride, even if it meant invoking duels of honor despite the obvious rules that such challenges were not allowed...

...on Académie grounds.

Still, the blonde water mage adamantly denied Guiche's pleas to let him 'defend her honor' if it meant exploiting loopholes in the school's regulations. Even if he did duel someone outside the Académie walls, he was still a student at the Académie and still subject to punishment for offenses committed beyond the borders of the institution. After all, it was the Académie's name on the line.

And besides! Louise had a poor temperament by nature. Everybody was used to it (somewhat). And explosive as she may be, she was still a fellow nobleman (for however long that lasts) and worthy of some modicum of respect (even though she deserved less of it). If anything, Montmorency had every reason to be passably affable towards the pink-haired mage. House Montmorency and House Vallière were, after all, on good terms.

Thus, Montmorency could not detach herself from the tomfoolery that ensnared Kirche and Tabitha with regards to Louise.

Because for all her faults, her pink-haired classmate did not deserve the grave danger that hung over her head courtesy of the reviled Count Bazaine De Hainault. And, if the grumblings of her parents were anything to go by, the royal messenger was someone most suspect and potentially dangerous to the Crown.

Already, some of his opponents in the aristocracy were either losing influence or prematurely retiring from the gentry entirely. Even a few members of the Cour Royale found themselves silenced. Most worrisome were the spate of 'unfortunate incidents' in the dark corners of towns and villages. While it could be dismissed as either commoners turning on each other or cases of frustrated vigilantism, the fact remained that people either vanished or suddenly exiled themselves. And most, if not all, of these cases were linked to the count.

If he were not overtly loyal to Her Royal Highness or vindicated in his actions, he would have been defrocked and disposed of. Yet why was it that such a man was in such a coveted position among the gentry? Maybe some of the rumors were true...? Then that would mean that Count De Hainault truly was...

“So how much have you heard, Monmon?” Kirche echoed.

Montmorency bit her lip and silently cursed herself for her curiosity.

“Come on,” the Germanian prodded. “Don't be shy. It's not like we were gossiping over something serious.”

“Sh-shut up,” the blonde hissed back. “It's not my fault you talk so loud.”

The redhead rose from her pool and rested her hand on the water mage's shoulder, ensuring she would not easily slip out. “We were being discreet. Why ever would you listen in on some whispers?”

“Why were you even being discreet?” Montmorency sneered.

“Why did you stick around when you could have left minutes ago?”

The blonde felt her tongue dry up.

Kirche smirked. “As I thought. Have a seat, we're just about done anyway and it's nice to talk about how we can stop our dear Zero from being turned into some ruthless warlord's thrall.”

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XXVIII_

Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes did not get this far in life without cunning, guile, and general dishonesty skillfully masked as a necessary evil for the greater good. And while he differed with Lord Oliver Cromwell on many things, he could always agree with the reformist Albian that things needed to change if mankind was to seize its destiny and restore control over the Holy Land in the name of the Founder Brimir.

Hence, he exercised utmost caution when he was asked to meet with Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault at the Charming Fairies Inn in the heart of Tristania.

It was dusk and the tavern was mostly full with the usual patrons, some making enough noise to drown out chatter. And while it was uncommon for nobility to frequent such places, heads did turn to the door when Francis entered. He was, after all, a recognizable face even without his signature hat or his rapier-wand or the mantle worn only by members of the Corps De Chevalier Griffons.

Still, he did visit this particular inn every now and then (usually to drag back the errant members of his corps after a night of shameful debauchery) mainly because the inn's proprietor Scarron served some of the best spirits.

And that was probably why Count De Hainault chose here of all places to have whatever meeting was going to take place. Because the magistrate was in the corner cubicle, reserved specifically for patrician clients, gulping down a tankard of heavy ale. How he was able to remain cognizant and sober after the three empty bottles on his table, Viscount De Wardes could only guess.

“Damn good stuff, eh, Viscount?”

Speak of the devil. Francis nodded at Scarron before making his way over towards the magistrate. “You called, _Monsieur_ De Hainault?”

“Sit.”

The griffon knight commandant eased himself onto the cushion across from the bear of a man who towered over him by a full head or two. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Have some o' this stuff,” the count accosted. “It's pretty damn good, holy shit.”

“It's a little too early for me,” Francis deflected. “Now, may I ask what matters you wish to discuss?”

“Ain't one for small talk, eh?” Bazaine chuckled, scratching at the back of his gloved hand. “Well, let me make this clear and plain to you since you're sober an' all.”

The viscount resisted the urge to lean in close. He could hear the man well over the noise and there was no need to cast any containment spells to protect their conversation.

“How much're you bein' paid?”

“Pardon?”

“How much are you earnin' for your hard work?”

Francis partly wondered if this was a trick question but decided to remain aloof. “Are you asking for my salary as the senior commandant of the Corps De Chevalier Griffons?”

Bazaine shrugged. “Sure, let's go with that. What's your monthly score on that job?”

“I'm sure you are well aware of the exact numbers given your services to Her Royal Highness and His Eminence.”

“Yeah. Got me there. It's a pretty good sum, though, ain't gon' lie. Though not as much as what ole Ollie up in the north is payin' you, I guess.”

The viscount felt his blood run cold but remained calm and composed as he breathed out through his nostrils. “I don't understand you.”

The count rested his empty tankard on the table and gestured at Scarron by the bar that he no longer needed another pint. “There's gotta be better reasons for a man o' your stature to be goin' right behind our backs now. I mean, you're rich enough as it is and with the extra money comin' to you from the north, I doubt you got anythin' else frivolous to spend 'em on.”

It was then that Francis noticed that Bazaine's left hand was under the table while both of his were firmly planted on top. With the profligacy of the tavern reaching a crescendo, it was impossible for any outside observer to tell that something was most definitely wrong in their little corner of the Charming Fairies Inn. Even Scarron was too occupied with his duties as proprietor and...casual entertainer...to bother with the two high-standing aristocrats and members of the Cour Royale. One of whom was pointing a musket at the other under the covered table.

The viscount was sure of it because his trained ears heard the distinctive click of the damned firearm. Also, he was confident that the barrel was aimed at his tender nether regions. And while it was possible to fight out of this in any given scenario—collateral be damned—the refined fox Francis De Wardes had to remind himself that he was facing down the rugged bear Bazaine De Hainault.

And Francis never forgot the duel that killed Jules Mott.

“You ever really use 'em?” the count taunted. “I mean, you definitely got a pair down there but you're chaste...accordin' to my sources.”

Sources? What sources!?

“Be a shame though to go all them years without touchin' a woman the way you want to. Still, you'd make a fine eunuch...if you can make it through the process, o' course.”

Viscount De Wardes forced upon himself the rigorous discipline hammered into him by his mentor Duchess Karin De La Vallière and met the man before him with a heavy glare. His rapier-wand was out of reach and he doubted he was fast enough to avoid a ball of lead hovering inches before his gonads. Given the circumstances—and the fact that he was by himself with no solid back-up—he had to play along.

With deep breaths, Francis slowly growled back. “What do you want?”

“Tell me, John-Jack Frankie. What's the most precious thing in the world?”

Insulting monicker aside, the viscount worded his reply carefully. “That is a complicated question, _monsieur_. I am no philosopher and I doubt what I would say would be satisfactory enough for you to spare me your wrath.”

“Wrath?” Bazaine chuckled. “I ain't mad at you, son. I'm just curious. What or who do you think is the most important thing to you?”

Francis bit his lip. “My fiancé. _Ma'amselle_ Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière, youngest daughter of our dear friend _Monsieur le Duc_ De La Vallière.”

“Really now? I never knew you liked 'em young.”

The viscount really hated that notion and made no attempt to hide in the venom in his voice. “It was an arrangement.”

“That you had control over? Surely, you were old enough to have a say in that, right?”

“Sometimes, unions are made for the greater good, even at the expense of a person's happiness.”

“So you're not happy that you'll have to be fiddlin' a sixteen-year-old girl who's got the body of a twelve-year-old and a temper two years less.”

Francis grit his teeth in righteous indignation. “You're disgusting if you think that I find that appealing.”

Bazaine simpered. “Nah, that's some sick shit even for me. But at least you saved yourself a bullet to your left nut for that one. Still got a bead on your right nut though so don't get antsy.”

“You favor my testicles too much.”

“And you favored the wrong side, son. I doubt you even care 'bout little Louise other than usin' her as some kind o' leverage to get in good with them Vallière's. Especially her mother. And we all know mommy dearest got a mean streak. Wouldn't want her gettin' right privy on this whole, y'know, marryin' her daughter just so them rebels up north can right use their noble house for, ah...what was it? Ah, well, you tell me.”

The viscount paled. This man knew too much. The plot that he and Lord Cromwell himself had spent months planning and nearly a year to properly execute was coming apart at the seams because someone had somehow unraveled the web of secrecy that kept this plan from being prematurely exposed. Very few people outside of the Coalition's inner circle were aware of it and he doubted any of the Albian lords had any sympathies towards the enemies of the Reconquista.

But to have half of their plan laid out so casually by an outsider was more than just alarming. It meant someone had broken the chain, that the underground network that had been keeping their movement alive had been compromised, that someone somewhere had leaked vital information or something happened that...

Oh.

Oh Brimir above.

Francis closed his eyes and let loose the breath he had been holding as he mentally rebuked himself for not seeing this sooner.

Of course, when Jules Mott died, someone would take his place. And that someone would inherit his predecessor's intelligence network. But no one expected someone the likes of Françoise Achille Bazaine to lay claim to something that could easily have been ignored by some of the more petty, predictable, and pedantic nobility in the Cour Royale.

The rumors claimed that Count Bazaine De Hainault was a ruthless bloodhound whose skills had been honed through years of gritty fighting in the mud and dirt and rain. While some such hearsay were spurious, there was much truth to the rest. And tonight, Viscount Francis De Wardes learned the hard way never to rile up this old war dog.

“You turned Ney, didn't you,” the griffon knight commander defeatedly began.

“Greed's out o' the picture,” the royal messenger listed off. “So's lust. Unless you're a heartless bastard, you gotta love somethin' other than some spoiled brat with a short fuse.”

Francis scoffed. “You really care about my loyalties?”

Bazaine shrugged. “There's a reason you chose the wrong side. I'm only curious.”

“Good for you. Though I have to ask what do I get in exchange for sating your curiosity.”

“You get to keep your nuts.”

The viscount laughed morbidly at that. “You're smarter than that. You know I have every reason to stab you in the back as soon as you let me go here and we go our separate ways.”

“You could. And you know that I could do the same to you. We go out that door, we shake hands, you turn around, and this right here piece o' mine goes _pop_ right into your sternum.” Bazaine leaned in close enough that his rancid breath reached Francis's nostrils. “And I doubt you'd outrun a bullet and nineteen more.”

“Your muskets are far too advanced to be considered fair.”

The count leaned back against the cushion. “Nothin's fair in love an' war, son.”

“War? What war?”

“Cold war. And the casualties've been mountin' for months now, don't you think?”

Bitter huff. “You truly are an old war dog.”

Grunt. “And you still ain't tellin' me what I'm curious about.”

The viscount eyed their surroundings. The evening was young and the debauchery was now raging in full. Still, there some sober eyes glancing their way every so now and then. Maybe he could use this...

“You know that our voices are still audible to those with ears to hear.”

“What? You want to cast a silencin' spell or some abra-cadabra bullshit? Nah, ain't gon' happen, son.”

“You're willing to risk a leak? Not many around us are as drunk as they should be.”

“That is true. But then again, they're all expendable.”

Francis blinked, his jaw nearly dropping. This madman. He was as murderous than the fanatics raving about in Albion, nay, even worse! While he himself was willing to make sacrifice for the roots of their cause, he would not go so far as to condone wanton massacre! He had to know who exactly he was dealing with. Perhaps this was all a bluff? It had to be.

“... Are you really that willing to raze this tavern to the ground?”

Bazaine's laughter chilled him to the bones. “Hell, if it means burnin' down the whole city, I'm fine with it. Makes for somethin' excitin' to do. Besides, we could always repopulate. Got a lot o' horny bastards in this country and a lot o' women eager for a man to love 'em in more ways than one.”

“You're mad...”

“And you're stallin'. Chop-chop or you're gon' hear a _pop-pop_.”

Viscount De Wardes counted his chances. And ended up with none favoring him in any way. That left him nothing else but to concede. And Founder above, the taste of defeat was furiously bitter. For there was no winning against an insane spawn of the Devil that even the elves would fear.

“What do you want to know, _Monsieur_ De Hainault?”

Contrary to what he expected, Count De Hainault did not grin like a hungry, victorious bear eager to devour a sullen, resigned fox it had trapped. Rather, the man's unkempt, bearded face contorted into an intimidating scowl. His voice, however, fully convinced Francis that the Reconquista Coalition had lost its initiative against Tristain as well as its most finest agent.

“Everything, _Monsieur_ De Wardes.”

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XXIX_

“ _Madame Royale_ , you are aware that you have allowed nothing short of a purge against certain influential members of our society here in the kingdom,” warned Cardinal Mazarin.

Henrietta, who had so far been engrossed in a tome she had pulled from one of massive bookshelves built into the walls of the royal parlor, only hummed in reply.

Her advisor let out a loud sigh before trudging over to where she was seated. “ _Madame Royale_ , _Monsieur_ De Poitiers is adamantly requesting for a meeting with you to discuss what he calls an 'unwarranted proscription.' I suggest immediately addressing this issue with him.”

The princess raised her head from the book. “I know. I will meet with him tomorrow.”

“Very well. I will make the arrangements. I will also be present for this meeting as I'm sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Additionally, I would like to confirm a transaction between the royal treasury and the proprietor of a notable social business here in the capital. Recently, I have received word that a _Monsieur_ Scarron wishes to extend his utmost gratitude to you for your generosity,” Mazarin worded flintily.

She nodded at him to continue.

“His premises is oft frequented by prominent aristocrats including members of the Cour Royale, hence, the rise in his revenue which he claims to invest in the development of the district he resides in. In this regard, _Madame Royale_ , may I please be properly informed of a transaction between the palace and our subjects that may have gone unnoticed by me?”

She gave a short wave. “You can write back a letter reciprocating his gratitude. How much has he been paid?”

He raised his chin. “From our own treasury? Nothing less than three thousand écu. Delivered in person by _Monsieur_ De Hainault the previous evening stating that it was 'on behalf of the Crown for providing much needed entertainment, company, and emotional solace to the aristocracy.'”

“How thoughtful of him,” mused the princess.

The cardinal did not leave her be. Instead, he remained standing beside the table she was reading off of. “Pardon my observation, _Madame Royale_ , but I find your nonchalance disquieting.”

Henrietta leaned back on her chair. “Unless you are here to assist me in deciphering my connection to the lost element, then I believe any further discussion between us regarding stately matters would resume later this afternoon.”

Her advisor glanced at the tome—an old text recording the early treatises of Founder Brimir's arcane affinity. Particularly, the current page bore a colored illustration of the Founder himself and the visage of his familiar, connected by a wave of blue hues that symbolized the intrinsic connection between master and familiar.

“I see that your curiosity is yielding results,” he remarked.

She shrugged tiredly. “Not so much as anything concrete that we can act upon.”

“Have you consulted with the Acadèmie?”

“They will be hosting the Invocation in a few days. I found it best to consult them afterwards.”

Mazarin paused in thought. “... You could dispatch _Monsieur_ De Hainault to consult in your stead.”

The princess nodded at that. “Yes, of course. Agnès will temporarily take over his duties.”

“ _Chevalier_ De Milan?”

“Yes. Who else?”

Her advisor appeared unsure. “Her methodologies differ greatly from that of _Monsieur_ De Hainault.”

“But Sixième trained her. And the rest of my musketeers. She would know what to do.”

“To purge our people no worse than barbarians do, _Madame Royale_?”

She exhaled tiredly. “I'm not in the mood to argue with you, _L'_ _É_ _minence_. Questionable as Sixième's actions are, he is still far more effective than a hasty court martial. He has yielded greater and more numerous results in little time than what an entire delegation of inquisitors could achieve in a week.”

“I do not recommend impatience—”

“I am not being impatient,” Henrietta sternly retorted, feeling a small headache ease into her temples. “I am only acting preemptively. For the safety of our people and our kingdom.”

“Preemptive action,” mused the cardinal. “Your grandfather was most fond of them.”

“Perhaps I take after him more than I do my mother.”

“Perhaps.” Mazarin shook his head. “Perhaps _Monsieur_ De Hainault exercises too much influence upon you.”

The princess gave him a most ungracious shrug. “What can you do? He's my familiar.”

The cardinal turned to leave. “Of course, _Madame Royale_. I will inform him of his new assignment.”

Once again left to her lonesome, Henrietta sagged on her seat and stared blankly up at the frescoes in the ceiling. For a moment, the paintings of the exploits of her ancestors morphed into the horrifying corpse-strewn landscapes plaguing her dreams. A two-headed bear lay mangled atop an eviscerated bull, their blood mixing and spilling into a vast crystalline lake, as a city of lights glowed every brightly through clouds of sand. Over them stood her familiar, a courier whose tattered duster rippled in the dry desert breeze.

She rubbed her fingers over her eyes and the ceiling once again bore the image of her grandfather standing proudly over the horned, winged, fire-breathing demons of the Germanian Confederation. In the back of her mind, a voice decried the romanticization of such a chapter in Halkeginia's history; the fresco needed more blood and bullets and a massive crater...

“... _Par les Fondateur_ , Sixième really is exercising too much influence on me.”

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 16, 2021**

**LAST EDITED: January 30, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 22, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (January 22, 2021) - I almost shelved the bit with Louise and Kirche. Took me a few extra tweaks to make it worth keeping in this chapter otherwise I would have deleted that entire thing. I decided to leave it in to see how the pettiness and gullibility of teenaged schoolchildren would work in the narrative that I got going here.
> 
> Also, I kept getting asked whether or not Saito would appear.
> 
> Well, to be honest, in the original drafts, it was Louise who summoned the Courier. Then later, I changed it to Louise summoning someone else. But recently, I've been mulling it over and some pieces started falling into place. So we'll figure out who Louise summons next chapter.


	5. Day XXX - XXXI

_Day XXX_

“I must argue, _Madame Royale_ , that the liberties you are providing the Corps Royale Des Mousquetaires are causing more harm than good,” formally protested the stalwart Archduke Olivier De Poitiers.

Across from him, the diminutive Princess Henrietta De Tristain set down her teacup and placed her hands neatly folded over her lap. “And again, I must argue back, _Monsieur_ De Poitiers, that I have provided these liberties in response to credible reports confirming the presence of hazardous elements within our realm.”

The highly-revered marshal of all of Tristain's armed forces frowned. “ _Madame Royale_ , you are aware that the these actions are causing discontent among the Cour Royale as well as many of the lower nobility throughout the kingdom. Additionally, these 'protective measures' that you have instituted are causing significant disruption to the local economies which are draining the royal coffers of much needed coin.”

“I am aware of the risks and the consequences and I assure you as I will assure the court later on that these measures are entirely for the safety of Tristain.”

Archduke De Poitiers exhaled long and loud. “... If I may echo my peers sentiments?”

“You may.”

“ _Madame Royale_ , we of the Cour Royale find it difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend the pretexts that necessitate for such wanton brutality waged against us.”

To this, the princess calmly breathed in and out, in and out, in and out. One, two, three, four, five, six bullets in a spinning chamber. One, two, three, four, five, six bullets in a spinning chamber... “ _Monsieur_ De Poitiers, you are aware of the civil war in Albion, yes?”

“ _Bien s_ _û_ _r, Madame Royale._ ” The archduke raised his chin in thought. “... Is there a correlation?”

Henrietta turned to Cardinal Mazarin seated between them. The parlor of the royal palace was vast and its spaces were wide enough to accommodate a social gathering of a hundred people. Yet, with only the three of them present and the discussion turning in a direction that Henrietta was not comfortable with and that Mazarin clearly had little room to mediate, much less having contributed very few words to the discussion, the whole room felt like a giant cage with too little air.

To her relief, her advisor nodded back.

The royal breathed deep. Courier Six may complain that Archduke Olivier De Poitiers was not trustworthy enough but the man before her was the appointed marshal of Tristain's armed forces for several meritorious reasons. And, no matter what her familiar would say, the archduke was one of her most loyal subjects, his service extending to the days of her father and her grandfather.

“ _Monsieur_ De Poitiers, what we discuss from now on will not leave the palace,” Henrietta sternly said. “Am I clear?”

He nodded hesitantly. “ _Oui, Madame Royale._ ”

Assured by another nod from the cardinal, the princess stood from her settee with her fists visibly clenched by her sides. “Good. Follow me, please.”

* * *

“I can feel your curiosity, Agnès,” Henrietta quipped. “It is just the two of us here.”

Her retainer glanced around the vacant parlor of the royal palace, brightly colored by the orange hues of the setting sun peeking through the glass windows. She still kept her arms folded over her chest while trying to be as unseen as possible between the bookshelves.

“... Was it wise to reveal everything to _Monsieur_ De Poitiers?” Agnès asked.

“I didn't reveal everything,” the princess replied, flipping the page on another old tome about the Founder Brimir. “Just enough to sate his curiosity and convict him into silence through his conscience.”

“He will be hounded by the Cour Royale for what he has learned today.”

“And he is wise enough to withhold sensitive information that could jeopardize the kingdom he is entirely devoted to.”

“... I still don't think he should have been made privy of the details.”

“Of our operations against the Reconquista?”

The musketeer captain pushed herself off the column. “ _I_ could be at risk, _Madame Royale_. I cannot serve you if I am being hounded by inquisitors.”

Her liege hummed. “Sixième will take care of that.”

“That's...a bit more confidence in him than I expected from you.”

Henrietta raised her head from the book to glower at her. “Is that doubt I hear, _Chevalier_ De Milan?”

Agnès reeled slightly. “As your retainer, I gracefully accept your rebuke. As your friend, I take offense.”

The princess blinked wide and turned away, having belatedly realized what came out of her own mouth. “I...I'm sorry, Agnès. I just... I... There's so much on my mind right now and I...”

The blonde pulled up a chair to sit by her table. “I understand, I understand. I am only expressing my concern. I may not know _Monsieur_ De Poitiers as much as you do but I cannot discount the possibility that he may be influenced by less supportive members of the Cour Royale.”

“He has been stalwartly loyal to my father and my grandfather. He has disagreed with my mother on many occasions but he still willingly serves her despite their differences.” Henrietta leaned back tiredly. “I'm not blind to the possibility that a man whom I trust is going to betray me. But I have to be cautious. I have to take chances. I have to test the loyalty of my subjects.”

Agnès shook her head. “But to risk Sixième's undertaking... _our_ undertaking...”

The princess rested a hand over hers. “Agnès, I promise you. If anything befalls you, I will do everything in my power to clear your name and have you restored to your station.”

“ _Madame Royale!_ ” she gasped, pulling back. “I...I am unworthy of such leniency—”

“Oh, stop it with the false humility, already!”

The musketeer captain blinked back in surprise, the tome having bounced off the table after her liege slammed her fist against it.

“You said it yourself. You are more than just my retainer, Agnès,” Henrietta said, her lips drawn thin and the sun glistening off her eyes. “You're my _friend_. There are very few people in this world I can call my friend and I will be damned to Tartarus by Brimir himself if I allow myself to continuously treat my friends no less than the subjects who willingly bend under my heel.”

“ _Madame Royale_...” Agnès exhaled. “Henrietta...”

“... I have to take risks that I can't keep ignoring. And risking you and Sixième was the safest option I have. If I continue to lie to the Cour Royale, to keep pretending that the nature would take its course, the consequences when we will be found out would be too devastating for me to contain. I have to compromise while I still have the advantage.”

The next moment passed in punctuated silence. The musketeer captain let her liege wipe her own tears as she checked the grandfather clock ticking away in the back: a half hour before the sun would fully set.

“You know,” the blonde started. “That sounds like gambling.”

Henrietta, her eyes still red from her outburst, chuckled. “Brimir above, where did that come from?”

“Sixième is a gambler. He said so himself. He even explained to us many times during our drills how he would make large bets and 'double down' even if it meant he would lose thousands.”

“And I take it that what I'm doing with the Cour Royale is gambling.”

Agnès shrugged. “You're shuffling the cards in your deck. Or at least, that's what Sixième would say.”

The princess laughed. “No. I think he would say that I'm 'placing my chips' on the 'right tiles' or something along those lines. His games of chance are so ludicrous when he tries to explain it. Honestly, what kind of games are 'poker,' 'roulette,' and 'black-jack' anyway?”

“I really don't know, _Madame Royale_. I honestly shuddered when he mentioned a gambling game from his homeland called 'sluts' or something where you had to constantly pull on an iron scepter and hope that three cherries fall in line. I did not like what he was insinuating.”

“In my dreams, they all seem like card games. You know, the ones like hazard?”

The blonde raised her brow at her. “How do you know about hazard?”

Henrietta returned with a flat look. “I may be the princess but I'm not ignorant of my subjects fondness for games of chance that they like to play in their not-so-subtle corner-clubs.”

“What else did you see in your dreams?”

She stared up at the ceiling where the frescoes once more reminded her of glories of her ancestors. “... I've told you before... Palaces of bright lights where desert people come to throw their wages at green tables hoping to win them back tenfold. Armies of steel golems, two-headed bears, and raging bulls. Commoners digging up broken trinkets from ancient steel temples to sell for poisoned meat... I know it sounds cryptic but what other words do I have to describe them?”

“And you say Sixième bathed this land in their own blood.”

“They're dreams, Agnès. And I'm not a prophetess. I just...” The royal gestured emptily at the book that was now laying on the floor. “...this familiar bond between me and Sixième. It's not...'normal' by any standards I've come across. Surely, he's dreamt of my life as well. Though he probably doesn't want to acknowledge it.”

Her retainer scrunched her brows. “Shouldn't the Académie be looking into this on your behalf?”

“That's why I sent Sixième to them. To inquire. To check on their research, on anything that they've been doing with my case.” The princess pulled out her wand and, with a quick incantation, levitated the tome back onto the table. “I'd like to help as well by doing some reading of my own right here with what I have. Feels more fulfilling than 'making hedge bets' as he likes to put it.”

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

“ _Monsieur_ De Poitiers sounds like a safe bet,” the musketeer captain remarked softly.

“You don't have to say that to impress me.” Henrietta once again reached over. This time, she cupped both her hands in hers. “I know you don't trust him as much as I do. And I know full well what will happen to me if all this falls apart. But if you still insist on going down with me, then I'll fight my way back up with you if it comes to it.”

It was a rare thing to see the hardened Chevalier Agnès De Milan twinkle from ear to ear.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XXXI_

Marie Justine Longueville was just getting out of bed a full hour before sunrise in time to see through her window from her quarters in the upper floors of the central tower the carriage of the royal messenger pull into the Académie stables. As far as anyone in the whole kingdom knew, Count Bazaine De Hainault was not a man who favored either punctuality or handling official business in these wee times of the day. This meant that either he was here on something particularly serious...or the Crown was forcing some discipline into him.

The Académie secretary kept her curiosity confined though; she still had to keep up appearances after all. So after bathing and dressing herself, she tucked her wand behind her belt under her blouse, and headed upstairs to Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond's office to begin her duties, half-expecting the magistrate to be present and already discussing something that might be of interest to her and the Reconquista. And sure enough, when she opened the door, he was there sipping on a goblet of wine (of course, he was) just as the director slumped down onto his chair with a resigned look. Interestingly enough, Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert was about to leave the office, his face contorted into a frown before quickly morphing into stiff politeness upon seeing her on the threshold.

“Ah, _cher_ Marie Justine,” Osmond greeted half-heartedly. “Come in, come in. We were just talking about you.”

Talking about her? That could be concerning.

“Pardon, _Ma'amselle_ Longueville,” Colbert apologized with a strange hardiness in his voice and an uncomfortable flame behind his monocles. “I must prepare for the Invocation. Have...have a good day.”

She watched him leave before adjusting her own set of eyewear and bowing before the other two in the room. “Good morning, _monsieurs_. How may I be of assistance?”

Count De Hainault eyed her like a hawk. “I hear you're in charge o' inventory, _Ma'amselle_ Longueville. Is that right?”

That was why she took this job to begin with but she was not going to tell him that. “ _Oui, Monsieur_ De Hainault _._ Part of my duties entail assisting the Académie quartermasters in these matters. In effect, I have to physically handle various personal effects, prized possessions, and valuable equipment.”

“Uh-huh. Includin' high priority artifacts?”

The secretary glanced to the director who merely gestured at her to respond.

“ _Oui, monsieur._ I am one of the very few within the institution with authority to manage...such highly-guarded articles kept on the premises.”

“So other than ole Ozzy right here and ole Baldy down there, you're the only one with access to the vault an' every shiny trinket in it.”

Longueville had to suppress her brow from rising at that. “ _Oui, monsieur._ ”

The provincial governor turned to Osmond who shrugged as though he had been beaten at some tabletop game.

And that alarmed her. Something did not feel right and she tempered her next words with caution. “Pardon, _monsieurs_ , but... Is there something the matter that...involves the vault?”

“There is, actually.” The count downed everything in his goblet then took the bottle of wine with him. “I need to see the vault. Somethin' o' grave importance that concerns the Crown, you understand.”

No. No, she did not. But best play along.

Director Osmond stood from his seat, a bulge moving in his sleeve, and paced over with his grand staff. He appeared unusually exhausted this early in the day. While not uncommon given how troublesome the affairs at the Académie could get, Longueville discerned something far more grave lingering behind the centenarian's weathered stare. He passed her a glance—most unlike the mischievous leers he sometimes liked to toy her with much to her disgust—and, for the first time since her first week, the secretary felt truly intimidated.

* * *

“So today's the day, huh,” remarked Count De Hainault.

Longueville spared a glance at the crowd of sophomores assembling down on the Vestri Court. Their chaperone, Professor Colbert, was orating on the principles of the Invocation Familière Sanctifiée. The scene alone brought memories of her own participation in the ritual back when she was still a student in Albion's Royal Academy For The Arcane Arts. She had to suppress the memory though—she could not afford to reminisce on a past burned to ashes by those she now served.

“Yes,” Osmond answered morosely. “The sophomores will summon their familiars as is Divine custom.”

“Familiars, huh.”

The secretary noted how the count enunciated the word. She glanced to the director who seemed more and more resigned by the minute. He did not even bother to return her wordless questioning glances. Might as well chance pressing the count directly.

“I hope you don't mind me inquiring, _Monsieur_ De Hainault,” she began.

“What?”

How blunt of him. “Do you have a familiar?”

Both men stopped in their stroll, Osmond regarding her with a raised brow while Count De Hainault shuffled over to lean on the bricks near the window sill, his arms folded as his heavyset green eyes surveyed the ritual field.

Longueville winced. “I apologize if I—”

“Used to,” the magistrate grunted.

She blinked. Then bowed. “Oh. I see. I'm sorry for—”

He shrugged. “Eh, it was their time. They come, they go. In the end, it's the memory that stays.”

“ _Their_?”

“Had a lot o' friends who've come and gone, _ma'amselle_.” He snickered to himself as he surveyed the assembly of students. “Beasts o' burden, beasts o' war, beasts too docile to see the light o' day. They all come and go what with the constant trouble we'd get into. I recommend havin' the company of loyal companions, _ma'amselle_ Longueville...assumin' you can stomach eventually losin' 'em.”

For a moment, the secretary felt pity for him. Then she snuffed out her compassion and resumed walking in step with him but not after she caught the director's sideways glances to the some of the sophomores milling about below. Namely Miss Zerbst, Miss D'Orleans, Miss Montmorency, and Monsieur Gramont—unsubtly glaring daggers at the count. It seemed the Longueville was not the only person in this institution who openly held the provincial governor highly suspect.

* * *

“He's here,” Tabitha quietly announced before returning to the book she loaned from the library.

Kirche glanced over her shoulder to see Montmorency and Guiche searching the crowd for that blasted count. After a few moments of not-so-subtle head-turning, they spotted their quarry observing them from one of the upper windows in the central tower. An indiscernible smile stretched across his bearded face as he returned their glares.

“He's watching us,” quipped the blonde.

“I don't like that look,” added his fiancé.

The Germanian shook her head. “He's probably enjoying the show.”

“Louise,” the Gallian said.

The other three traced Count De Hainault's gaze towards an unassuming Louise who so far was busy trying to keep up her facade of steel to even notice her immediate surroundings.

Kirche would never admit it but she really did care for Louise as a person, as a mage (yes, technicalities given and monickers aside, the pink-haired girl truly was capable of magic uncontrollable), and as a rival to their noble house. And she would be damned if her only source of premium entertainment in this school was going to end up with the fate of so many unfortunate ladies back home. The Germanian Confederation was far from perfect and Kirche was determined to ensure that none of the horrors of her kinsmen would replicate themselves here in a country where she found some semblance of peace and serenity. Most especially not to Louise.

Tabitha, on the other hand, may not entirely share her best friend's sentiments but having escaped a tormented life under her sadistic uncle meant ensuring that what she experienced would not befall others. And what the Gallian saw in the count's eyes reminded her of the godless opportunists patiently waiting for their prey to waltz right into their serpentine arms. If she was paranoid enough, she would have believed that Count De Hainault could merely be an extension of her mad uncle King Joseph De Gallia.

As for Guiche and Montmorency, they could claim to care less about Louise. But, Zero that she was, the girl was still their classmate and fellow Tristainian. Had circumstances been different, they would have probably gotten along really well. And after confirming with their parents through ceaseless letters their suspicions of the sinister motivations of Count De Hainault, the proudly betrothed pair had resolved on their honor and virtue as nobility to save one of their own...and, if their parent's mania was to be believed, the Crown as well.

All the while, Professor Colbert had spared careful glances towards them and towards Her Royal Highness's secret familiar up in the wide open windows of the central tower chuckling at an uncomfortable Miss Longueville and a sullen Director Osmond.

* * *

Longueville prided herself as the best of her ilk. She alone had so far worked her way into a position to be able to freely enter the highly-coveted vault of the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes twice a month as part of her 'job.' And while it was tempting to make her score, she knew she had to be patient. She could not let her greed ruin an endeavor that many could only dream of.

The sentries—four heavily armored Line-class halberdiers from each of the four arcane affinities with at least five years of experience in military service to the Crown—guarding the antechamber housing the massive vault doors saluted stiffly at the arrival of the secretary, the director, and the provincial governor.

“ _En place repos_ ,” Osmond ordered.

The guardsmen, their wands tucked behind their belts while their dominant hands gripped the shafts of their tempered steel halberds, marched from the doors to the position themselves on their flanks with practiced elan.

“Nifty lines o' defense you got here,” remarked the count. “Really ain't takin' no chances, huh, Ozzy.”

“None whatsoever,” tersely replied the director who was dug his wrinkled hand inside his robes.

The vault doors were specially forged to withstand brute physical force and enchanted many times over to make them nigh invulnerable to magic cast against it. The locking mechanism built into the center was designed specifically to the make it difficult for a thief to pick their way in—because the thief would need to have at least three separate keys simultaneously fed into the three separate keyholes installed in a triangular lock which would then enable the mechanism to be manipulated by a clockwise twist of the central torc, triggering the intricate mechanisms within it.

And, given the state of affairs and some clever bureaucratic maneuvering by her 'amicable associates' in the Reconquista, Longueville had been considered trustworthy enough to be entrusted the third key. The first was held by Director Osmond who was currently feeding it into the tumbler. The second was for some reason surrendered to Count De Hainault by Professor Colbert, the second keeper. And the magistrate, mimicking the director's actions, likewise fed his key into the hole.

The secretary could feel the count watching her every move as she completed the set and twisted the torc on the lock with a soft grunt.

A moment later, the massive doors eased open on their own—an action driven by intricate mechanisms hissing and rumbling within—revealing a staircase leading into the depths of the Académie.

Count De Hainault snickered. “Underground. Smart.”

And damn frustrating for most thieves, Longueville did not add.

Together, they descended. The enchantments detected their auras and the sconces on the walls flickered to life with balls of arcane light. A minute later, they arrived at the cavernous hall that housed more than two-thirds of the treasures of the Kingdom of Tristain along with a few gifted by the other nations on Halkeginia and some looted from the Germanian Confederation in a savage war many years prior.

The secretary heard the magistrate let out another proud whistle as he surveyed the glorious strongroom and everything in it. A similar reaction she had when she first set foot in here months ago; it had taken immense self-control not to abscond with half the goods in here.

“Go~odda~amn,” drawled the count. “Now this is a right proper vault, sweet mother o' God...”

Osmond almost preened despite his scowl. “Yes. Majestic and lined with a portion of Halkeginia's treasures.”

Longueville kept mum, keenly tracing the magistrate's wide eyes as they bounced from item to item. From enchanted weapons locked on enchanted racks to cursed jewelry housed in 'unbreakable' glass cases. From antiquated haberdasheries unearthed from tombs and excavations across the continent to aged scrolls, tomes, and grimoires cataloguing magics bordering between harmlessly pagan and damningly heretical. From the ornate décor on what little of the walls, floors, and ceiling could be seen to another set of sealed doors at the far end of the cavern.

The magistrate pointed. “What's in there?”

“The reliquary,” the director breathed out rather tightly. “It is where we house artifacts that are deemed too valuable or too deleterious to see the light of day...unless Brimir himself would call for it.”

The secretary raised her brow at the addendum. Maybe her superior was being cheeky again but the metaphor was lost on her. “... I know it is not my station to ask of the matters necessitating your presence here, _Monsieur_ De Hainault. But I do hope you would consider indulging my curiosity.”

The count snickered, his massive hands planted on his hips. “Ain't nothin' wrong with askin' them kind o' questions, _ma'amselle_. Though, right now, I think it best if we, ah, open up them doors and we see what all the fuss is about concernin' this so-called 'Staff Of Destruction.'”

Oh bollocks.

 _That_ was what he was here for?

No wonder Osmond was so unlike himself today.

Longueville reined herself in when the director surprisingly acquiesced to the royal messenger's request. The old wizard never once allowed anyone to access the reliquary, not even herself or Colbert, swearing by his name and by the Founder Brimir that only a direct order from the Crown would get him to grant access to such a highly-guarded place. And it was rather convenient that Count De Hainault carried such an order and was fortunate enough to bear witness to the contents.

It was an opportunity that the secretary would never pass up. After all, she very much _needed_ to gain access to this part of the Académie and to think she would have to resort to drastic measures just to get this far. She steeled herself to contain her excitement; finally, a chance to grace the Staff Of Destruction and perhaps anything else within with her own eyes before she would cart them off should that time come.

“Guess you ain't ever been this far, eh, _ma'amselle_?” quipped the governor.

She feigned meekness. “ _Non, monsieur._ I only catalogue what is in here but never the reliquary itself. It is strictly off-limits unless...”

He smiled back a smile that almost made her skin crawl. “Yeah. I can see the reasons why.”

Osmond cleared his throat as he dangled his key. The three of them approached the reliquary doors, also bound by a similar triangular lock. After going through the process again, they were now in the smaller chamber of the Académie vault.

And this time, even the director was visibly surprised at the reaction that came from Count De Hainault when he surveyed what was inside.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” he breathed as though he had seen the face of Brimir himself.

“ _Monsieur_ De Hainault, are you alright?” pressed the director.

Longueville watched the count approach the pedestal on the dais upon which rested the fabled Staff Of Destruction. And, unlike the descriptions she had heard of it, it was completely...different than what she had expected. For one, it did not look like any staff she had ever seen. At best, she could describe it as a metal pillar bearing the oddest reliefs and protrusions and...was that a trigger? As in, the switch that made a musket fire?

What exactly was this thing?

“... Ozzy,” the count began chillingly. “Where did you get this?”

The director glanced to his secretary—was that pity or regret?—before sighing. “... _Monsieur_ De Hainault—no. No. _Monsieur_ Sixième, I mean.”

Six? _Mister_ Six? What was going on?

“ _Monsieur_ Sixième, the Staff Of Destruction was retrieved from the body of a knight-errant much like yourself.”

Longueville raised her brow. What an odd monicker for a count. Certainly not a sobriquet one would adopt unless it was bestowed upon him for his deeds or something...unless...

No.

Wait.

He was a former knight-errant who supposedly spent much of his time in the service of warlords in Germania and elsewhere across Halkeginia. Surely, over his years he would have developed a reputation that merited monickers, some of which tended to be quite unusual. 'Mister Six.' Was that his nom de guerre? The number six?

Still, why was he here for the Staff? What did the Crown want with it now of all times? Unless he was not acting on behalf of the Crown...

To her surprise, Count De Hainault grasped the staff with alarming familiarity...as though he knew what it really was and how to use it. What was more, Director Osmond did nothing to stop him. The old wizard remained in place, morosely clinging to his own grand staff.

“ _Directeur_ ,” she gasped. “Are you sure we can allow—”

“Calm your tits, Longueville,” barked the magistrate, whose massive build kept her from seeing what he was doing with the artifact. “Or would you rather prefer we drop the bullshit and get down to brass tacks, Fouquet? Oh, I'm sorry, I meant Lady Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha.”

The Académie secretary froze.

How...

How in Brimir's name...

How did...how did he know!? Had she been compromised? Had she slipped up somehow? How long had he seen through her ruse? How much else did he know? Was he really a bloodhound agent of the Crown? What was his agenda!?

Clink, clang, tumble.

Marie Justine Longueville, otherwise known as Fouquet De La Saleté En Ruine, gawked in wide-eyed horror as the fabled Staff Of Destruction literally came apart and clattered in large separate pieces onto the floor, revealing it to be some damned contraption with all the intricate gears and coils peeking out of the open metallic tubes rolling off the dais. By the time she traced the remains of her prize up to the man who dismantled it, she found herself staring down the barrel of one of Count De Hainault's pistols.

“ _M-monsieur_!” she squeaked. “Wh-what are you— _D-directeur_! Please mediate! I—”

Osmond shook his head at her as he positioned himself in front of the open doorway. “A shame, really, _cher_ Marie Justine. You were a diligent and obedient secretary. To think I was senile enough to let someone like Fouquet deceive me for so long.”

“Don't even think about tuggin' on that damn magic stick you got there,” growled the count, his heavy green eyes piercing into hers. “Ozzy? You mind?”

Something small skittered across the floor. It was Osmond's familiar; that annoying little white mouse he named Motsognir.

The damn thing had always been a bane of her existence, always peeking up her skirt on behalf of its master. But this time, the tiny creature that she was constantly tempted to squash under heel ignored her undergarments entirely. It scurried up her leg, bouncing onto the hem of her dress then squeezing into her belt to drag her wand out with its teeth. It then leapt off of her and into the hands of a severely unsmiling Osmond.

“I know what you're after,” the magistrate said. “Now you tell me why you're goin' after it. 'Cause a missile-launcher sure as hell ain't gon' feed sweet little Tiffa and the dozen or so little shits you got runnin' 'round in your safe house up north.”

Founder above, no! How could he know so much!?

“That is...unless I've been lied to and Miss Tiffania Westwood is the actual brains o' this whole operation you've been runnin' under our noses. Now if that were the case...wouldn't be hard to hop on a ship. Ask the right questions and, well... Movin' through a civil war ain't gon' be too hard when you play your cards right, don't you think?”

For a moment, Longueville's heart skipped a few beats as all breath left her lungs. Slowly, her lips began to tremble as she rubbed her sweaty palms against the wall she backed into, her wand confiscated and herself poor with her fists. And goodness knows that while she was masterful at her affinity for a Triangle-class mage, she was not as agile enough to dodge a lead ball speeding towards her face from a foot away.

“Be wise with your words, _cher_ Marie Justine,” the director crowed.

Her tongue dried up with her jaw going slack. She glanced around in a panic; a revered Square-class wizard she had no chances of beating in a fight blocking her exit and a murderous madman she had no knowledge of who was rumored to be capable of killing superior mages without magic...

“You have five seconds,” Count De Hainault said. “Five.”

She sputtered. “W-wait! Th-this is all a mis—”

“Four.”

“Please, _monsieur_! Don't—”

“Three.”

She had to take her chances now, the Reconquista be damned. Her loyalty was to Tiffania and the precious little jewels who depended on her, not Cromwell and his damn fanatics! “W-wait, please! Stop, I just—”

“Two.”

She raised her hands in a show of surrender. “Tiffa has nothing to with this!”

“One—”

She shut her eyes. “Don't kill Tiffa, please!”

_Bang!_

Searing pain rocketed into her thigh and the defrocked Albian noblewoman Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha collapsed with a cry onto the floor.

“ _Monsieur_ Sixième!”

“Relax, Ozzy. She's still breathin'.”

“That was too much!”

“You wanted her alive, you got her alive. At least she seemed reasonable. Ain't like those sum'bitches up north.”

“But to cripple her—”

“Would you rather I do the cripplin' or the boys at the palace dungeons? 'Cause you know them sick bastards ain't takin' too kindly to scum-fucks like this bitch who's been robbin' their buddies all around the kingdom.”

“You are crossing very thin lines, _Monsieur_ Sixième.”

“And you've grown soft, old man. Might want to shelve your retirement plans and get back into the game while you can still walk 'cause we got a long road ahead of us.”

“You're mad.”

“Uh-huh. And she's bleedin'. I reckon about fifteen minutes 'fore she'd hemorrhage herself to death.”

Matilda was biting back tears of pain, gripping her leg which was now covered in her own blood courtesy of a large hole in her thigh. Such raw power from a musket, such coldblooded callousness, such disregard for human life... She felt herself being hoisted up by the shoulder and glared back at Director Osmond who very roughly dragged her out of the reliquary.

“How...” she gasped. “How long have you known...?”

“Myself?” the director grunted back as he handed her wand to the count. “Just this morning. _Monsieur_ De Hainault? Since last week.”

She squeezed out a bitter chuckle despite the limping agony. “He really is a bloodhound.”

“An old war dog who would have killed you right then and there without my intervention,” Osmond uncharacteristically growled back. “Now behave yourself, woman, if you wish to have yourself treated.”

Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha, once known as Marie Justine Longueville, nodded obediently and remained painfully tightlipped as they exited the vault where they were received by the same sentries who, she realized, had been privy to the whole charade from the beginning. How convenient that half the student body were in their classes while the other half was partaking in the Invocation outside. The staff were likewise busy with their shifts, leaving the corridor empty as she was basically dragged towards the infirmary.

“I pity the servant who has to clean up after you,” one of the halberdiers snorted.

The thief looked down on the polished marble floor being marred by her own blood, some of which Motsognir was licking up. What a way to get caught, she bitterly mused.

* * *

Today was the day.

And Louise was terrified.

One by one, her classmates brought forth a familiar and bound it to their service. Every time it was something either adorably humble or majestically awesome. Guiche was already doting on his mole of a familiar while Montmorency was cooing at her frog sitting on her palm. And then there was Kirche who summoned a rare fire salamander (was that a literal fireball burning at the end of its tail?) from the eastern mountains of Halkeginia and Tabitha who summoned—of all things—a dragon.

A dragon.

A large, blue dragon that immediately bended its knee before the Gallian—as a knight would to his liege—even before the monocled girl could seal the Invocation with the ritualistic kiss.

Louise almost felt her soul leaving her envy-stricken body. She glanced away during the congratulations to see someone regarding her from one of the windows in the central tower.

Was that...? Was that Count Bazaine De Hainault?

And was he...? Was he smiling?

Smiling at her?

He caught her stare and gave her a thumbs up and a nod. Then he vanished behind the stonework.

Maybe...

Maybe Louise was not as terrified as she should be. And maybe she might actually call forth something so magnificent, so powerful, so majestic that not even Kirche's salamander or Tabitha's dragon could stand up to it.

“Is there anyone else who has not yet partaken in the ritual?” asked Professor Colbert.

Filled with newfound confidence, Louise immediately raised her hand and eagerly declared that she was ready to summon her familiar.

* * *

Siesta was doing her rounds, brushing off dust from the reliefs and the pottery, when she encountered Count De Hainault in the corridors.

“Pardon, _Monsieur_ De Hainault,” she apologized with a low bow, her eyes passing over his holstered guns to a discernible wand tucked behind one of his many belts. So that was where he kept it...though it looked a bit familiar. “I did not see you.”

“Eyes up, woman,” he gruffly ordered. “Since you're gon' be workin' for me soon, might as well get you right conditioned.”

It was hard to discern what he meant with that but the maid knew not take risks raising questions to her betters, especially to a man the likes of Count De Hainault. So she wordlessly nodded and followed after him. And then she saw it.

A trail of blood leading from the chamber housing the vault doors. The guards on duty were absent and the magistrate was handing her a mop while pointing to the crimson stains smeared over the fine marble tiles.

“Keep this to yourself,” he sternly ordered. “Otherwise, you won't be seein' the sun again. Am I clear?”

With a yelp and a nod, Siesta feverishly went to work, her mouth clenched shut but her frightened mind wondering what exactly had happened. Injuries were not uncommon here at the Académie but this much blood stretching across an entire corridor...

Maybe working for Count De Hainault was not going to be so easy as she thought it would be.

* * *

The yard was silent ever since Louise declared herself ready to partake in the Invocation, being the last among her class to do so.

She could practically hear the morning breeze sweeping across the open field. Not a single word from her peers, not a single jeer, not even the usual jab at her being an absolute failure at magic. Truly, either she was concentrating so hard she blocked out the world or the world fell mute in patient judgement. Even Kirche, her most ardent tormentor, had her lips locked tighter than Tabitha on an y given day.

Regardless, she focused on her task. Her wand at the ready, she stood before the runes carved into the ground, and, with a comforting nod from Professor Colbert, she recited the words.

May the Founder Brimir, the aether through which magic flows, and the cosmos where everything was and is and is to come grant her this. A familiar, even the most humble mouse or an obedient dog or even a griffon to match the wind dragon and the fire salamander sitting close by their mistresses. Anything really.

And the cosmos responded.

With an explosion.

A very large explosion.

So large that Louise was sure it was the largest one to date.

And the blast, though deafening, did not harm her ears while the shockwave, though powerful, did not knock her off her feet. Ignoring the complaints of her peers who were now clamoring for her expulsion, the young pink-haired mage waved away the smoke and peered into the dissipating cloud.

Something was there; a discernible form splayed across the ground. Opaque but definitely something. And it was moving now.

Louise felt her cheeks widen into a smile as she finally graced what would be her familiar. A majestic, powerful, awe-inspiring beast that would prove her name...that would...be standing on two legs...and having two arms...and a head...like a person...no older than her...

...wearing some kind of armor...

...shouting at her...

...pointing some kind of musket in her face...

Professor Colbert pulled her by shoulder while he thrust his staff forward. “ _Ma'amselle_ Vallière, get behind me!”

The voices of her classmates finally came through.

“Zero, who is this!?”

“He's an armed commoner!”

“ _Par les Fondateur_ , she might get shot!”

Louise felt her joy evaporate and her knees almost buckled as she was forcefully dragged behind the professor. But then, something else resonated across the field that silenced everyone: a command bellowed by Count Bazaine De Hainault marching out into the yard that startled the reasonably terrified foreigner into lowering his weapon.

“Stand down, son!”

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 20, 2021**

**LAST EDITED: February 1, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 30, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (January 30, 2021) - Guess I pulled your legs there. Sorry about that but I'm keeping a word cap for these chapters.
> 
> Well, at least we know a bit more about who she summoned. I'll explain next chapter why I chose who I chose and why some candidates didn't make the cut. But rest assured that just because you failed the audition for a leading role doesn't mean you're not eligible for the other stuff.


	6. Day XXXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (February 6, 2021) - Moment of truth.

_Day XXXII_

Henrietta jolted awake.

Her breathing was erratic, her hands were moist, and her room had yet to be illuminated by the sun barely cresting over the horizon outside her window.

A moment later, she cupped her face to wipe away the sweat and tears.

" _Par les Fondateur_ , that wasn't some macabre dream," she mewled to herself. "That was a nightmare..."

And, so far, it was the worst one to plague her since she summoned the Courier.

The princess laid back down on her bed, her nightgown damp with her own sweat and her bedsheets in disarray from how much she had apparently been tossing and turning in her sleep. Slowly, the bright orange hues of the morning sun began painting the walls of her personal chamber.

"Sixième," Henrietta muttered, turning on her side where the the spires of the stone towers peeked through her window. "So much blood, so much guilt... How much do I have to pray for your soul?"

The images were still fresh in her head. As were the smells of burnt flesh and the suffocating smoke and the bitter taste of copper and dirt and sand. But above all, forever seared into her mind were the faces of those whom Courier Six had faced: a perfidious snake in a checkered coat, an erudite king speaking through living portraits, a godless warlord wearing a twisted steel mask, a penitent priest wrapped in strips of cloth...and a second messenger with the banners of a dead world on his back.

All of them stood over a sea of bodies, some consumed by the fires falling from the reddened sky and the survivors poisoned until the fifth generation.

But it was that messenger with the twisted hairs adorned in grey clerical robes who remained after all the illusions faded. He strode over the cadavers with his golden eagled staff, pushing through the raging dust clouds, to where she was floating in the abyss and spoke to her in his hypnotic baritone...saying that she was burdened by a weight that she lacked the strength to shoulder. There was a sadness in his eyes when he spoke of how she was being misguided by one who was also misguided.

She rubbed her eyes again. It was not the lack of guidance that she was worried about at the moment, however. It was the amount of sin...of grievous, heinous, unbearable sin...crimes that could not be forgiven...vile deeds that made it difficult for her to breathe the more her mind lingered on them.

"Holy Founder above, may your name be praised," the princess prayed softly, her hand gripping her pillow as the tears poured anew from guilt that was not hers. "Please grant my familiar peace...and forgive him for the sins he has done...for I cannot bear his pain as I lead Tristain... Please, dear Founder Brimir, please..."

* * *

"So we have two Void mages now," echoed Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond.

Silence permeated his office and at this midmorning hour, the centenarian wizard was already yearning for some of those exotic dried herbs he liked to smoke with his pipe. Then again, though he would not outwardly admit it, he begrudgingly agreed with the sisters in the infirmary that he should reduce his reliance on such controversial commodities. The same could be said of Count Bazaine De Hainault who, by now, had gone through an entire bottle of hard ale and was popping the cork off a new one.

"The 'Right Hand Of God' and the 'Left Hand Of God' both in Tristain," offhandedly remarked Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert, his research notes sprawled haphazardly over his superior's desk. "Her Royal Highness and...and _Ma'amselle_ Vallière. It shouldn't...it shouldn't make sense. Yet it happened and...and blasphemy cannot be blasphemy if it bears the unmistakeable mark of the Divine. All my findings do not indicate otherwise."

"Drink up, boys," grunted the magistrate.

Osmond and Colbert sullenly accepted their cups of heavy spirits apparently purchased from some tavern in Tristainia.

" _Ma'amselle_ Vallière's familiar," the director started. "His actions and his words speak of a boy forced to grow into a man by circumstances beyond his control."

Count De Hainault took a long swig from his goblet. "The wasteland is a dog-eat-dog world, Ozzy."

The professor pushed up his monocles. "He carries himself...so similarly to you, _Monsieur_ De Hainault. Yet, he is barely half your age."

The count grunted humorlessly. "Trouble don' give a shit how old you are. If you ain't out lookin' for it, it'll come lookin' for you. And once it gets to you, it won't let go even after you hang up your boots. Don't you agree, _captain_?"

Jean-Baptiste Colbert glared intensely at the magistrate, his normally calm voice now dripping with tempered fury. "I volunteered to aid the Crown to the best of my ability. Some decisions I'm not proud of but I at least endeavor to right my wrongs while I am still able."

Bazaine De Hainault snickered. "Still got some o' that fire in you. Good."

"Are you trying to provoke me, _Monsieur_ De Hainault?" the professor growled.

"Just checkin' to see if you ain't rusted to shit like ole Ozzy over here."

Antoine-Laurent Osmond, for his part, remained impassive. But his aged irises bore heavy consternation towards the provincial governor. He may be passed his prime but he was still a formidable Square-class wizard capable of defending the whole Académie by himself if it came down to it.

"... The youth, _Monsieur_ De Hainault," he echoed more sternly. "He knows restraint but his poor temperance makes him a danger to those around him...even after he has been disarmed. With what we have learned since then, I can only conclude that it would only take a direct order from you, of all people, to pacify him. Goodness knows that any of our attempts to rein him in would result in...severities. And while we can be sure that his runes are powerful enough to prevent him from directly harming _Ma'amselle_ Vallière, he remains unrestrained from causing harm to others."

"Yeah," the count drawled. "I knew that was gon' be the case. I'm already workin' on gettin' that boy sorted out. Remember that little private chat we had with little Louise last night 'bout her new familiar?"

"I was not present for that," Colbert intoned coldly. "What came of it?"

Osmond folded his hands over his desk. " _Monsieur_ De Hainault strictly reminded _Ma'amselle_ Vallière to behave herself given her station as a daughter of a prominent noble house. During the discussion, he expressly instructed her to treat her familiar as an equal lest she...be punished."

"Punished how?"

"She stops school and starts work at my estate," Count De Hainault said.

The professor nearly slammed his hands on the director's desk in fury. "Osmond! You cannot be serious about such a condition!"

The wizard calmly gestured at his subordinate to take his seat. "Jean-Baptiste, you must be aware that the current volatility of her relationship with her familiar may undo her self-restraint and lead to damages beyond our capabilities to rectify. To this extent, I have decided that a heavy hand is needed to instill discipline."

"If _Madame le Duchesse_ De La Vallière learns of this—"

" _We_ will weather the storm together," Osmond said, his eyes shifting between the other two. "Understood? _We_ are not fools to challenge the tempest alone, are we?"

The governor chuckled while the professor slumped back in muted despair.

"And what of his equipment? His armor, his weapons, his various...trinkets?" croaked Colbert.

"Took 'em apart," replied Count De Hainault. "Useless for now."

The professor downed his tankard before grabbing the bottle to fill it back up to the brim. "... Repeating muskets, wars over clean water, and men who are much alike the monsters they hunt. If I were a lesser man, I would think either you were born in Tartarus or your world has simply gone mad."

"Both." The count paced over to the window to gaze back down at the sparsely populated trimmed grounds of the school, his drink sloshing in his goblet. "I'll pass on the message to Her Royal Highness."

The director regarded him with reddening eyes. "Discreetly?"

"You know me, Ozzy. Besides, at least Henny'd feel a little less lonely."

"What of the other students?" Colbert raised. "What of _Ma'amselle_ Zerbst and _Ma'amselle_ D'Orleans? You know how adventurous the former is. And the latter is not above acting on her convictions no matter the consequences."

"Have they been a nuisance recently?" Osmond asked.

"They, and a number of their peers, are already openly suspicious of _Monsieur_ De Hainault here. Have you not heard of the new tales they've been spinning about him _and_ about us _and_ the Crown? That we are all part of some wild conspiracy, tainted beyond hope and hypnotized by a corrupt influence who is standing in our presence right now?"

"Kids make up their own bullshit all the time," dismissed the magistrate. "They'll grow out of it."

"I would not underestimate the foolhardy resolve of a noble son or daughter," the professor contested. "They are neither blind nor deaf. And mind you, _Ma'amselle_ Zerbst and _Ma'amselle_ D'Orleans are more than who they seem. If anything, they outrank even their betters; none of the juniors this year can hold a candle to them with regards to their skill and some of our alumni have yet to match their adeptness."

"Prodigies, eh?"

"With veritable experience that none of their contemporaries have been afforded," Colbert all but hollered. "Those two young ladies know who is sitting in the infirmary nursing a broken leg. And the fact that Fouquet—"

"Longueville," Count De Hainault interjected. "Gotta get the story straight."

"And how long is that going to last?" the professor angrily retorted. "Without a doubt, those two are probably spearheading some student inquiry into why the Académie secretary is suddenly crippled, distressed, and chained to her bedpost in the infirmary under heavy guard!"

"She fell down the stairs, Baldy. Happens sometimes."

Osmond blinked. Colbert blinked.

The Courier settled for drinking straight out of the bottle. "What? It's a good excuse."

* * *

"She fell down the stairs?" Montmorency repeated incredulously.

"That's a very poor excuse for a blatant abuse of power if I've ever heard one," derided Guiche.

For a moment, the other three girls in the empty classroom fell silent as they regarded him with the flat looks.

The blonde earth mage blinked back confused. "... What?"

His fiancé shook her head. "Okay, so _Ma'amselle_ Longueville supposedly suffered an accident that rendered her crippled in such a way that she is unable to leave the infirmary...which has been placed under heavy guard."

"And any visitors are extensively vetted before being allotted the minutest time with her," Kirche added. "The only people allowed to see her are the sisters, their attendants, and...a select few."

" _Directeur_ Osmond," Tabitha added. " _Professeur_ Colbert, and _Monsieur_ De Hainault."

Montmorency scrunched her brow. "The director, I can understand. But _Professeur_ Colbert? I can hardly see any reasons why he would be given such special privileges much less have any other reason to even visit her. Not that I don't see him being in any way close to her; we all know he is more obsessed with his research projects than engaging in social gatherings. And what would the count even want with _Ma'amselle_ Longueville?"

Kirche fluffed her hair. "I suspect a tryst."

It was the Germanian's turn to receive even flatter looks.

"Really, it's always something scandalous with you," the water mage groused.

"Wait," Guiche intoned. "She might have a point. We cannot discount such a possibility. I say this entirely as a compliment: _Ma'amselle_ Longueville is in the prime of her youth. Maybe through her rather remarkable appearance—second only to my dear Monmon, of course!—our dear secretary may have captured the attention of _Professeur_ Colbert or _Monsieur_ De Hainault."

"See? Even _le petit cochon_ is starting to see through the falsehoods," Kirche snickered.

" _Bien s_ _û_ _r!_ Being that my father is a discerning—wait, I beg your pardon!?"

She ignored the melodramatically offended blonde. "Who is to say that _Monsieur_ De Hainault is not too old to be virile? Or perhaps _Professeur_ Colbert is hiding more behind his kindness? Or even _Directeur_ Osmond really intends to go beyond peeking up her skirt with little Chu-chu?"

Montmorency shuddered. "I'd rather not imagine."

"Not that," Tabitha argued. "Silencing."

Silence.

The redhead broke her facade. "Wait. Tabitha, do you mean...? Are you saying that... _Ma'amselle_ Longueville was being silenced? That she had just survived an assassination attempt?

"Walked passed the infirmary. Saw the count leave. Saw her crying."

More silence.

"... So _Ma'amselle_ Longueville must have discovered something about _Monsieur_ De Hainault," Kirche worded, "and he found out and came here to try and...silence her?"

The blond earth mage rubbed his chin in thought while he around the classroom. "And _Directeur_ Osmond became aware of this..."

"...by way of _Professeur_ Colbert who must have uncovered it and reported it immediately to the director," his fiancé piled on. "They then tried to stop him—"

"Or appease him," Kirche continued. "Given how much power he now holds. In light of all the proscriptions across this kingdom and how much he has benefited from them, he is probably on equal standing with a duke..."

Guiche raised his finger. "And the Académie is powerless or afraid to act against him for his deeds...because of how closely tied he is to the Crown."

Montmorency shook her head and waved her hands. "Wait, wait, wait! Are we all going to agree that...that, that, that...that _Monsieur_ De Hainault tried to kill _Ma'amselle_ Longueville on school grounds, going so far as to paint it as an accident?"

"But she survived and now the school is trying to save her while appeasing her would-be killer," summed the Germanian, "who happens to wield more influence and authority...than the school. Hence the guardsmen at the infirmary and the fact that _Monsieur_ De Hainault has not left the premises since yesterday. And from what our _cher_ Tabitha has witnessed, he must have reached a compromise with the school that has left _Ma'amselle_ Longueville alive but in tears."

The water mage sagged onto a vacant seat. " _Par les Fondateur..._ This is a conspiracy. A conspiracy! Who knows how big this might be! What secrets may be hidden from us in plain view that...that could have an immense impact!"

"A member of the Cour Royale trying to silence a witness currently seeking refuge on neutral grounds—our prestigious academy," Guiche summed up with growing excitement. "Such a tale, such a scandal...is so storybook. Almost like a mystery begging to be solved, an adventure waiting for its heroes!"

"With a kingdom to save."

"And rewards to reap."

"And glory for our names!"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, you two," Kirche intoned, separating the betrothed pair. "I think we're jumping to conclusions based on what little we know so far. Don't you think so, Tabitha?"

Tabitha pushed up her monocles. "Need more information."

"And that is what I have," boasted the Germanian. "Yesterday after the Invocation, yours truly noticed one of the maids behaving unusually only to discover her 'secretly' emptying a bucket full of bloody water. Either someone hurt themselves real badly or she cleaned up after the attempt to assassinate our dear secretary."

The other three eyed each other.

"What is her name?" Guiche asked.

"Is she in league with the count?" Montmorency demanded.

"Patience," Tabitha intoned vexedly.

"Now, now. No need to get too excited," Kirche chided. After all, they had just summoned their familiars and spent much of today bonding with them. To quickly go on a self-styled inquisition on an increasingly powerful nobleman the likes of Count Bazaine De Hainault would surely end in their extreme detriment. And that was not to mention the latest even that had enraptured much fo the institution: the fact that Louise the 'Zero' had summoned a _person_ as her familiar.

Someone who was so much like the count complete with the foreign armor, the foreign weapons, and the foreign language. It took the intervention of the magistrate himself to pacify the volatile young man enough for Louise to finish the ritual...and almost cause a more serious incident that might have ended in some deaths had it not been for the quick responses from both Count De Hainault and Professor Colbert.

Through the commotion, Kirche, Tabitha, Montmorency, and Guiche all recognized one key detail: Louise's familiar recognized the count. Or at least responded to him more than he did to anyone else. Did they know each other? Did the young man factor in all this? What was really going on with their provincial governor and the Académie?

The students realized that they had be patient with all these events happening so suddenly. And three of them, yearning for glory in their youthful zeal, were growing quite impatient.

* * *

Noise.

Noise outside her window.

Noises of the sophomores enjoying their time with their newly summoned familiars. Noise of freedom that taunted her through the windows of the infirmary where she had been imprisoned.

Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha sighed to herself. Other than stewing in her miserable captivity or waiting for the sisters to check on her every now and then, the former Académie secretary and infamous thief lay in her bed with her thigh wrapped in fresh bandages. The damn bits of lead were still buried deep in her thigh and causing great discomfort whenever she took strides but at least it was not bad enough to cause an infection or, at worse, necessitate the amputation of her entire left leg. In essence, she was recovering at a steady pace and, according to the sisters, without any further 'complications,' she would be discharged in a few days time.

 _Complications._ Yeah, right.

One such 'complication' was her brutal interrogation under the monster that was Count Bazaine De Hainault. He showed neither mercy nor general human compassion when he pressed his finger into her wound until she told him everything she knew and and anything else that she hoped were true, her screams muted by the powerful silencing enchantments cast upon the entire infirmary by Director Osmond. And while she had little love for her superior or her 'colleague' Professor Colbert, she could see that the latter was tempted to intervene on her behalf.

After all, the notorious Sulfur Serpent had his limits hence his 'penance' as a pacifist professor expending his efforts on various research. If anything, Matilda would admit to holding Colbert with more respect than she could give to most anyone else in this whole kingdom. His repeated apologies to her for 'resorting to brutal methods' were at least genuine. That and she detected the disapproval and growing animosity between most of the Académie staff and the provincial governor.

Count De Hainault may be buying his allies but he was not entirely winning their favor.

"How are you feeling, _Ma'amselle_ Longueville?" asked her attendant Sister Catalina, a healer three years her junior hailing from Gallia's Iberian provinces.

"Better. Thank you for asking," she replied with a small smile.

"Are you feeling any discomfort?"

Dear Founder, this girl was just like her little munchkins back in Albion. "None. Just the usual itch and throb but nothing too serious."

"Very well. I will be here for the rest of the evening. Call upon me if you need my aid."

" _Oui, oui, bien sûr. Merci, Soeur_ Catalina."

Founder bless Sister Catalina for her naivety and kindness. At least the sisters here were passionate in their work and truly caring of their patients...regardless of who they were. Though Matilda could not say the same for her Line-class halberdiers who remained stalwart outside the infirmary doors. It was not like she could escape in the state she was in but Director Osmond could 'not take any more risks.'

The former secretary went back to watching the clouds hovering in the mid-afternoon skies outside her window. No wand to channel her magic, no associates to help her escape, and certainly no resolve to even bother.

Especially not with the count still lingering about.

Noise.

Noise coming from the hallway outside.

Sister Catalina rushed past her to open the door just as one of the guardsmen escorted a newcomer into the ward.

This one Matilda had never seen before. And she had been working here for half a year now to know nearly every face in the school.

"Stay here," instructed the halberdier.

"Sure. Not like I'm going anywhere," retorted the patient, a young adult man almost the same age as Sister Catalina. He was cradling his arm which was bent at an angle that made her wince. His features were rough, unshaven, and mostly unkempt with his eyes darting around akin to a wild wolf brought into a menagerie clinic for the first time.

Those wild eyes eventually landed on her sequestered in her little corner at the end of the ward, prompting the halberdier to pace over and pull the curtains surrounding her bed.

"What's up with her?" the young man asked.

"She fell down the stairs," the guardsman grunted.

"Really."

"I wouldn't keep asking those types of questions if I were you."

"Why? Something going on?"

"I said no questions. _Soeur_ , how long is this going to take?"

"Patience, please," Sister Catalina pleaded. "This is delicate and I ask that both of you keep at peace so I may work."

Matilda laid down on her bed. Whoever this new person was, he was coming off more akin to Count Bazaine De Hainault: unpredictable, uncommon, and unsafe.

A few moments later, she heard Sister Catalina gasp. " _M-monsieur!_ Th-those scars...h-how can you have survived such, such... My word, what have you been through, _monsieur_!?"

The newcomer let out a nervous chuckle. "Err, sorry, lady, but, ah, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't ask those kinds of questions."

"Now you get it," snorted the halberdier.

* * *

Siesta was on her way to return the mop and pail she had been using when she chanced upon a sight that made her bite her tongue to keep from squeaking. She had no idea what came over her but her instinct led her to leaping behind a pillar, hoping that she was not seen in the shadows as her ears picked out the argument.

"I'm not going to be someone's _slave_!" Was that the young man that had been summoned by that one student?

"You're already one!" Count De Hainault growled, his gravelly voice sending shivers down the maid's spine. "Get your head straight, boy. You seen them moons up there? Get it through your goddamn skull that you ain't on Earth anymore. This ain't the wasteland. No rads, no robots, no goddamn anythin' that you can find up in your paradise—"

"This can't be real!" screamed the young man who, now that she had a good peek, had his arm wrapped in a sling. "This...this can't be real."

The count let out a long sigh. "That's what I thought a month ago, boy. Thought I was trippin' on some bad fruit or someone spiked my drink. Or maybe I damn well finally died. But I guess...there's some things waitin' for you in another life."

The young man slumped to the floor, his weighted eyes glaring wide at the marble, as his free hand clamped down on his own hair. His mouth was moving and Siesta strained to hear, only picking out what sounded like names.

To which Count De Hainault kneeled with a hand on his shoulder. "I ain't gon' ask who they are but let me tell you right now, son. You won't be seein' 'em for a long time. Pro'lly never again. And you're just gon' have to accept it. I went through your gear and I damn well can see that hell in your eyes. This ain't easy, I know. But you can't keep ignorin' all this."

"I... I... This can't—"

"Take it from me, kid. You ain't the only one who's been branded like some brahmin."

He locked his gaze back up at him. As did Siesta who was pondering what she had heard as she witnessed the count remove pull on his right glove. She could not see anything more beyond that given his large build but whatever it was cowed the volatile young man.

"God screwed us over, son. Might as well make some goddamn good lemonade out of them lemons, don't you think?"

"H-how?"

The magistrate put back his glove and stood up, offering his hand. "You can start by talkin' to little Louise. I'm sure she's hurtin' in other ways than you are, especially after those little tiffs you two've been gettin' into."

"But she's—"

"A scared sixteen-year-old girl who got a damn good deal thinkin' all her life it was a bad hand." He helped him up. "In the meantime, I'll be holdin' onto your gear. Can't have you lettin' loose a warning shot on a bad day."

Snort. "I'm not that reckless, sir."

"That's what I told myself when I was your age, son."

The next few minutes passed in obscurity with Siesta remaining where she was long after she had discerned that both Count De Hainault and Ma'amselle Louise's 'familiar' had left. Her mind was a mess after having heard some words she never thought could be spoken by anyone else outside of her own family: 'wasteland,' 'rads,' and 'robots.' Could it be that all those stories were more than just morbid, fanciful tales meant to whip her and her rowdy cousins into shape?

Did her future employer hail from the same mysterious land as her grandfather?

It was getting late and now was not the time to dwell on those things just yet. She still a few more things to do before her shift would end. But even as she emerged out of the shadows and hurried back to the servant's quarters, mop and pail weighing down on her tired arms, a part of her dreaded that the two men she had unintentionally eavesdropped on were aware of her presence the whole time.

* * *

Louise sat in contemplative silence with an empty roll of parchment spread over her study table. She had spent the last candle's worth of time repeatedly dipping her quill into her inkwell. Whatever words she could come up were almost always erased by her self-doubt and uncertainty.

What could she tell her family? Surely they were expecting something to come by this week since they were well aware that the Invocation was within the past few days and the youngest daughter of House Vallière had been mostly timely with her letters. What could she say to her sisters? To her father? To her _mother_?

Brimir above, why did Count De Hainault have get involved with all of this anyway!?

"'A fellow soldier from another frontier,'" she verbally recounted him saying. " _Par les Fondateur_ , why did my familiar have to be...to be...to be a detestable vagrant the likes of _him_!? A dog would have better. Nay, a mouse! Even a humble cockroach would suffice!"

Louise ungraciously dropped her head into her hands.

"What am I supposed to say?"

Knock, knock.

For the love of... She did not need this right now! "Who is it?"

"Louise," echoed back her familiar's voice.

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

Slowly, she unlocked her door and let him inside. Whatever animosity she had for him was tempered by the sling that held his broken arm. That and for the first few moments, he refused to meet her in the eye.

Louise was tempted to demand the reasoning for his visit but the instructions of Count De Hainualt rang strong in her mind. She did _not_ want to be 'in service' at his estate!

"Is there something I can do for you?" she asked through gritted teeth.

Now, he looked at her...apologetically. "Damn it, I'm not...really good with this so... I'll just get to the point then."

She raised her brow as he straightened himself before her.

"Louise, I'm sorry. I...I shouldn't have yelled at you...and assumed that you were...um...a spoiled little sh—um, I mean... I shouldn't have called you all those nasty things, I guess, is what I'm trying to say and, uh..." He stammered and sputtered and scratched the back of his head before slumping and regarding her rather pathetically, his lanky frame bending like a broken clockwork toy. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll just— I'll just leave it at that."

For her part, the pink-haired mage kept her nose up and glare prevalent. Then the moment passed and she too had to release the breath she was holding. "... L-likewise. I sh-should not have a-assumed as well th-that you were some l-lowly commoner...with all the colorful vocabulary I used to describe you."

He nodded.

She nodded back.

Crickets.

"So...are we good?" he asked.

She exhaled. "All is forgiven. For now."

"Great." He scratched his broken arm, now wrapped in clean strips and hanging limply off his sling. The Brimiric runes carved into the back of his left palm shown against the candlelight. "I, uh, I won't be going off on you from now on...I hope. And, well, y'know, randomly making holes in the wall, right? Ha-ha-ha, um, yeah."

She felt her eye twitch at the mention of the damage done to a particular section of her room that she had yet to get fixed. "So long as you don't irritate me with your, with your—"

"Hey, I was overwhelmed, alright? It's...it's complicated why I acted the way I did. Too much going on at the same time."

"I suppose I understand." She really did not. But Count De Hainault expected better from her with regards to her familiar so she had to play along. A part of her wondered how much influence the magistrate had to convince Director Osmond to agree to this...despite the consequences if her mother were to find out.

"Cool," her familiar replied. "That's good. Um, so...can we start over?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, um, can we...start anew? Like, um... Okay, how 'bout this." He smoothed his unkempt hair, rubbed his stubble, and the presented himself as best he could with his good arm. "Hi, miss! My name is Leon Walker. I'm from back east. Uh, way back east. I mean— different places! Yeah. Um, I, uh, wasn't expecting to be... _summoned_...as your sla—um—s-s-s-s _ervant_ but...I'll...I'll give it a shot. Not like I got a choice anyway."

Founder above, the rest of her life was going to be more difficult than she realized. But at least he was finally cooperative. "Very well. My name is Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière, third daughter of _Monsieur le Duc_ Centurion De La Vallière of House Vallière and _Madame le Duchesse_ Karin Desirée De La Vallière of House Maillart. A pleasure to...meet your acquaintance, fami—I mean— _Monsieur_ Walker."

"Awesome." He stretched out his hand.

She looked at it.

"Oh. You...don't know what a handshake is?"

She folded her arms. "I am unfamiliar with your customs."

He shrugged. "Okay then. Well, um, I guess... I didn't plan on going this far so... Is there anything you'd wanna know?"

Louise had so much she wanted to know. She had so many questions to ask and she was not about to let this renewal of their relationship as mistress and familiar be ruined by her excitement. So she started slowly. "First things first, _Monsieur_ Walker. How are you acquainted with _Monsieur_ De Hainault?"

To this, his baggy eyes went wide as his slacking jaw. "Um...I don't really know him personally. To be honest, I've never met him until yesterday."

"But he knows you, correct?"

"How do I say this? Um, he knows...where I'm from. And I, sort of, know where he's from. We just...happen to be from the same, uh, continent. Like, uh, meeting a fellow Tristainian in a foreign country. Yeah! Like that."

That made sense, she mused. "So you were a knight-errant like him?"

"A knight-err—uh, yeah! Sure, I was. Um, I think. I was, uh, moving from place to place." He glanced away, almost ashamed to continue. His voice dropped to a low whisper. "Y'know, taking jobs and doing my good deed for the day and all that."

Louise sighed. So he really was a knight-errant. A mercenary. And mercenaries were a fickle bunch, often sung as villains more than heroes in bards' tales and the written epics. From what she was seeing of him, it seemed he had done things that he was not proud of. Best not to push too much on that for now. Then she remembered what he was carrying on his person when she summoned him.

"Your muskets," she said. "You both use muskets, the likes of which I've never seen before."

"Yeah. 'Muskets.' Sure. And a few other things that I really feel naked without."

"You're fully clothed."

"I meant that I feel—what's the word? Oh. Vulnerable. Yeah, I feel vulnerable without my stuff."

Similar to how a mage would feel if he were to be deprived of his foci, she reasoned. Fair enough. "What about magic?"

He bit his lip and glanced around before answering. "We're more on science than, um, magic."

"But isn't science the exploration of magical theory?"

He regarded her with an almost insulted expression then shook his head. "No. No, no, not that— Well, okay, yes but no. Not really. It's...it's complicated, okay?"

So she summoned a commoner. A martially capable one with the confidence of the provincial governor. Still, capability is still capability and he had skill. Terrifying skill from what she had experienced the previous day. To be able to move at such speeds while encumbered with that strange armor he wore. And the fact that it took the combined efforts of Professor Colbert and Count De Hainault to restrain him after she had sealed the Invocation.

She pointed to his runes. "... How is your hand?"

He shrugged. "Itchy. But not painful."

" _Professeur_ Colbert seemed surprised by them. He says they're unlike the ones usually seen on the other familiars."

"Yeah, I heard. Guess that makes me special, huh."

Being a _human_ summon? Completely special. Unique, if one were generous. Blasphemous, if one were fundamentally devout. "How do you find your accommodations?"

"The food's great, I have to say. And you have clean water. _Clean water._ People kill for that."

She almost recoiled. Where in Brimir's name can one find a place where water is enough for people to fight over? Was the water from his land of origin so tainted?

"Room's good, too. Better than where I used to sleep."

Because mercenaries and commoners were not often accorded such luxuries given their station, she did not add. "If anything, you're being treated like a noble."

He grimaced at the mention of the aristocracy. "Sure. Met a few. Guess you could call them 'nobles.' Didn't like them. They paid well but... There are lines that just can't be crossed."

Louise sympathized with him on that. The desires of some of the nobility completely went against the very code that Brimir himself wrote down for his descendants to follow. At least, her familiar confirmed that he indeed had morals and that won him greater regard from her. "How did you deal with them?"

He frowned. Then scowled at the floor. In her peripheries, she noticed his knuckles clenched white. "Not something I'm keen to revisit. Sorry."

"That's fine. You don't have to. It is not my place to know."

It was then that she noticed one of the candles flickering. With practiced ease, she pulled out the tinderbox from her drawer, scraped the flint against the metal until the sparks reignited the wicker.

"You know, I thought you were going to just magic the light back," quipped her familiar.

She sighed through her teeth. "I'm an exception."

"So you're special too?"

"Not the word I would use."

"Nothing wrong with being unique."

"Oh really?" she growled. "How about being unable to cast magic properly and always ending up with explosions? Being called a 'Zero' to my face because I'm a failure of a mage? Oh, how about being insulted daily and my name cursed by even the teachers because I caused too many injuries due to my attempt at trying to learn!?"

"Whoa, whoa! Easy," he barked back. "I didn't— Wait. You were bullied?"

"Forget it. I don't expect you to understand."

"I actually do. You're not the only one born with a target on his back, you know."

She regarded him only to find anger burning behind his baggy eyes. "I guess torment cares not for one's upbringing or station in life."

He shook his head. "Nope. At least over here, they don't try to kill you for being different."

Much like the elves in the Holy Land would kill any human who dared cross into their lands. How quaint. "Where exactly are you from?"

For a moment, he studied her. "... You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

That was not entirely true. Though she would dismiss most as frivolous, she did try to keep an open mind to things. Mostly. Sometimes. Okay, maybe not as often. She did not like being left in the dark and she was curious, for the love of Brimir! "Tell me. Just tell me."

He sat down on the chair across from her. "Alright then. Would you believe me if I told you that I grew up in a vault?"

Louise blinked. Okay, so maybe she was going to have take everything he would say from now on with a grain of salt. (Seriously, a _vault_? As in like the Académie vault?) With a nod, she gestured at him to continue and he did, elaborating that there existed these large communes hewn deep inside mountains that were called 'vaults' which were meant to protect its inhabitants from an inevitable, apocalyptic war. His tone shifted every now and then—from how fondly he seemed to reminisce living a sheltered life away to how bitterly he recalled the horrors he inevitably had to face.

Yet, as the night progressed, he became more relaxed...more amicable than before. And that was greatly relieving for the pink-haired mage. For now, she would not need to worry about this discussion devolving into another argument, another hole in the wall, and another broken arm.

* * *

Kirche sat in silence on her bed in relative darkness with only the light of the moons to illuminate her lavish quarters and the light from the ball of fire hovering over the tail of her familiar Flare bathing his corner in vibrant red. So far, the Germanian sophomore had kept up the illusion that she was already asleep and blissfully unaware of the affairs in the rooms adjacent to hers. In particular, Louise's.

While the Académie walls were built thick enough to mute most noise (so as not to let students unintentionally 'disturb' their neighbors who were 'studying') and granted with the protective enchantments (in case some students were hazardously experimenting), they were still susceptible to less spells like, say, twist the air to cage sounds so as to preserve them for later use. In this regard, the spell cast earlier was one that was common in Germania and Gallia: a spell that amplified the sounds of certain areas.

Very useful for lords trying to learn the plans of their rivals. Also commonly used by lesser mages with scores to settle.

In this case, Kirche was only curious to know what Louise and her mysterious familiar were talking about. No malicious intent whatsoever. Perhaps material for tugging on her hairs but nothing more. She was not that cruel.

And the fact that Louise even failed to cast cantrips meant that there was no silencing spell to reinforce the enchantments in her own room. Which meant that nothing counteracted Kirche's magic which allowed for her to hear every detail of the tale of Herr Leon Walker.

A tale so outlandish, so unbelievable, so unusual...yet spoken so passionately with hints of emotions that painted it all genuine. After all, Herr Walker was no thespian, that she could tell. On the possibility that this was all an act, then he was as good a deceiver as Herr Von Hainault. If not, then the reality that there could be another world that existed somewhere where magic was a fool's construct and man could end empires in a day with fires that rained down from the sky. Such vivid descriptions were frankly unnerving to the point that she found herself sweating under the sheets out of how restless she had become from imagining them in her head.

But above all were the personal tragedies that Herr Walker himself had to endure. Some of which tugged at her heart, drawing on emotions of vulnerability that she thought she had suppressed. Yet to have experienced such cruelty, bigotry, and downright betrayal atop a raging war he could not avoid...all within the span of a year...

Kirche snapped out of her sympathies upon hearing a chair being dragged across the floor.

"Goodnight, Louise."

"Goodnight, _Monsieur_ Walker."

"Um, how 'bout you just call me Leon. Not really, uh, comfy with the ' _monsieur_ ' thing."

"Very well...Leon."

"A~and I'm out."

Footsteps. Door hinges creaking. Door lock clicking. Shuffling. Rustling sheets.

The Germanian thought that was the end of it and was considering dispelling what she had cast only to hear another noise echo from the corridor. Steel rubbing against leather and a low gravelly humming that could only belong to...

"How'd it go?" Herr Von Hainualt? He was still here!?

"Better than I expected," croaked Herr Walker.

Chuckle. "Yeah. Kid ain't that bad. Just got a rough life, is all."

"You and me both, sir."

Oh? Just exactly how much did these two men have in common? Did the governor likewise hail from these cratered 'waste-lands' filled with demonic bears, sickly ogres, immortal ghouls, steel golems, and Brimir-knows-what-else?

"Um, I, uh, told her...a lot."

"Really now. Even your name?"

"I gave her a substitute: 'Leon Walker.' Much easier to say than 'Lone Wanderer.' Like hell am I telling her my real name just yet."

What a monicker, Kirche thought. A lone wanderer? She wondered why he left that particular detail out. Then again, he did not sound all too proud of it.

"Understandable," grunted Herr Von Hainault. This was followed by a long pause. "... I take it she now knows what nuclear energy is."

"The concept of it. And more on the consequences of its misuse."

Another chuckle. "Good thing that ain't a reality over here. Well, not _yet_. What else you tell her?"

"The Brotherhood. The Enclave. Project Purity. Big summary of all of that, basically."

The concerted effort to purify a tainted river and the factions that warred over it. The Germanian could have easily dismissed it all as some fanciful story conjured by a minstrel after four tankards at a Bavarian tavern. Yet Herr Walker's storytelling was filled with such zeal and passion that she found it all hard to doubt.

"Project Purity? Boy, you still need to tell more 'bout that. Ain't gettin' much from the East Coast with all the shit-storms burnin' up the Midwest and comms eaten up by god-knows-what across the rest of the fuckin' continent. Be nice to hear 'bout civilization over there."

"And it'd be nice to know about Vegas and what happened in California, sir. With all due respect, I know you don't like the Brotherhood but at least..." Breath hitching, voice dipping. "...at least give _me_ some closure. The western chapters have gone dark and the paladins in DC have been getting restless the last time I checked."

Grunt. "Fair enough. You like to gamble, son?"

"I've made some. Not fond of taking risks unless I have to though."

"Well, this'un ain't really that risky. Ain't that much to wager, anyway. Nothin' like puttin' down some bets to get somethin' off your chest. That is if you got the time. You look like you could use some shut-eye."

"I'd say the same for you, sir."

Herr Von Hainualt snickered. "Guess that shows that we're both tough sons-o'-bitches."

Herr Walker scoffed. "And I was told I was going to be a fry cook for the rest of my life. Who knew flipping a pan is about as good as swinging it at someone's head."

"Yeah. Wasn't expectin' to end up a courier myself but, well, shit happens, son. Deliverin' packages is a dangerous job, after all. And now we're here after all we've done."

Bitter chuckling. "Yeah. If this is Hell, then what the fuck is Heaven like?"

"I'd like to think this as Purgatory. Or maybe Limbo."

"Same shit, different day?"

"Same shit, different world. But hey, at least this'un's got clean water an' clean air an' folks who ain't either mutated to all livin' hell or rottin' alive." Chortle. "The afterlife ain't too bad, don't you think?"

"Not the 'fire-and-brimstone' I read about but I'd take this over that any day." Yawn. "Been awhile since I talked someone's ear off like that. I'd hate to go to bed feeling like this though."

Heavy footsteps echoing against the polished marble. "That so? Ever heard o' this little card game called Caravan?"

Shuffling. "No, sir."

"It's a decent past time. Think of it like, ah, poker or blackjack but without the house edge. Really gets 'yer mind off things." Their voices were growing soft; they were leaving. "... Can easily rake in a fortune if you play your cards right. Rules are simple..."

The spell wore off and the Germanian was left to her thoughts in her room. All she could hear now was Flame's soft snoring and the crickets cooing in the wilderness outside. After ruminating for several minutes, she wondered if Tabitha had done the same thing given that her best friend's room was only a few steps down the hall. Then again, she could be reading. Or asleep.

Needless to say, Kirche August Frederica Von Anhalt-Zerbst did not get much sleep that night.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 30, 2021**

**LAST EDITED: February 7, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 6, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (February 8, 2021) - So Louise summons the Lone Wanderer. Ain't that a kick in the head.
> 
> In the very first draft of this whole thing, it was Louise who summoned the Courier. Then I changed it to Henrietta summoning the Courier with Louise summoning the Lone Wanderer instead. But there was a problem: I have never played Fallout 3. And to write about that game's protagonist and that game's setting without having any actual experience playing the game itself was just silly. So I switched to Saito but had him as a 16-year-old NCR conscript from Vault City who knew about the Courier and had some awareness of the Lone Wanderer's deeds.
> 
> But I kept getting enticed by the thought of the LW actually playing a part in this so I revisited the Fallout wiki and started reading up about the LW and the Capital Wasteland and the Fallout 3 DLCs. And after much rumination, I decided to revert back to the LW being Louise's summon because I felt he would compliment the Courier more than Saito. That and I'm viewing this as a challenge to myself to see if I can deliver on a character I have almost no connection to.
> 
> Still, at the moment, this is about as much screen time I'm going to give the LW. The narrative would focus mainly on Henrietta and the Courier because, frankly, this story is about them and also because I'm more familiar with the Courier and the Mojave Wasteland than I am with the Lone Wanderer and the Capital Wasteland.
> 
> Also, there were some candidates who were brought up by the readers that I've given some thought. Some, I felt, would have ended up in control of Louise than Louise controlling them and that didn't fit what I had in mind. There was one though that I actually seriously considered but then that would mean lore problems and I really don't want to go too deep in lore for this story.
> 
> Other than that, I also felt like deleting another bit from this chapter: the scene between Kirche, Tabitha, Guiche, and Montmorency. I considered erasing that part entirely because of how stupid it seemed. But then again, I spent hours writing and proofreading that, and teenagers at that age tend to believe what they hear and come up with. So I left that in to see how well it would work.
> 
> There was some confusion as well last chapter with the last line. As someone had pointed out, the way 'son' was used in that context was more akin to referring to someone younger than the speaker as 'kid.'
> 
> One more thing: from now on, updates for this story would be sporadic.
> 
> I'm sure there are parts that I may have gotten wrong with the liberties I've taken. I'll rectify what I can. Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed reading.


	7. Day XXXIII

_Day XXXIII_

If Louise De La Vallière was poor with her magic, at least she was devout. Or so she liked to reason.

Still, she considered herself more devout than the redheaded Germanian girl who decided to sit in the same pew as her in the Acadèmie chapel during mass. For some reason, she found it difficult to concentrate on the homily being delivered by the newest deacon assigned to the school, a lean young charitable man named Stephen who, according to the newest rumors, had once been stoned by an angry mob for preaching selflessness.

"Amen," chorused the entire congregation of students and teaching staff.

Louise, though, found it a little disconcerting that someone so shamelessly lustful as Kirche spoke with such reverence in response to the holy word. Then again, Louise herself was no saint and she would admit to her own faults. But at least she did not flaunt herself to such degrading lowliness!

Speaking of lowliness, that was one reason why she entered mass in such a dour mood.

Her familiar had been found sleeping in the stables in nothing but his undergarments, reeking of dried sweat and covered in hay! Had it not been the holy weekend, she would have meted out severe punishment for such ill behavior that undoubtedly tarnished her name by extension.

"You've been awfully sour today, _mon cher_ Louise," Kirche started almost immediately after mass had ended.

"Shut it, Zerbst," Louise hissed, stomping away towards the infirmary where her familiar had been taken to. Not because Leon was wounded but mainly because he needed a better place to recover from his apparent hangover. Brimir above, why had he been drinking last night? In fact, where did he get so much drink to become so greatly inebriated?

"I heard _Monsieur_ De Hainault had taken a keen interest in your familiar," the Germanian said, falling in step with her.

The pink-haired mage grit her teeth. Of course, it was the provincial governor. The same man who had been dangling a sword over her head ever since the day of the Invocation and was most likely the reason why she was bearing the shame of what Leon had done under the influence of heavy spirits. In fact, what exactly had he done last night? There did not seem to be any serious damages or anything unsavory that she may have come across.

Or maybe she was about to find out in a moment as she was allowed inside the infirmary by the four halberdiers standing guard by the doors. Thankfully, they kept Zerbst and her annoying salamander out.

"Leon!"

"Don't yell, please," groaned the young man who was thankfully fully clothed and lounging on one of the many vacant beds.

Louise stomped over. "What in Brimir's name were you up to last night, hm!?"

"Ugh, I don't know... I don't remember, really."

She folded her arms. "Do try. I unfortunately have the rest of the day to listen to your excuses."

He glared at her while reaching over for the cup of water on the bedside table. "Look, I wasn't planning on getting drunk, okay? Things just...happened."

"Things don't just happen. I didn't think you were of the sort to indulge in such vices but it appears I have to deal with that unfortunate characteristic of yours."

"Damn it, Louise, I'm not an alcoholic," Leon growled. "I just remember...playing cards with that old bastard...and, I guess, he had some booze on him. Really strong booze now that I think about it..."

So the count was involved. Because, of course, the count _had_ to be involved. "You mean to say you were accosted into drinking by _Monsieur_ De Hainault."

"Pretty much. Look, I didn't want to but...he was persuasive."

Louise did not appreciate the answer. "From now on, I forbid you from taking so much as a sip of spirits."

He nodded weakly. "Seconded."

"Good. Now do you need to stay here a bit longer or are you sober enough to help me?"

"Help you? Wait, what was I supposed to do again?"

"Holy Founder above," she groused. "You agreed to assist me in my studies?"

He furrowed his brow. "Oh shit, was that what we agreed on last night?"

"Shortly after your colorful tales of your homeland, yes."

"Damn. Well, I better not be treated as some kind of goddamn slave or else—"

"I am aware of the conditions," Louise snarled. "Because of your familiarity with _Monsieur_ De Hainault, he has convinced the school to grant you special status among us nobles. Hence you are to therefore behave like one."

Leon blinked back in surprise. "No shit? Wow. Fuckin' A, I don't know what to think about that."

"And speak like one!" she barked. "I will not tolerate such vulgar language from you."

He rolled his eyes at her. "That'll be a little hard to do away with."

"It is not impossible. Or do I have to resort to punitive measures to ensure compliance?"

To this, he smirked at her before wagging his finger in her face. "Ah-ah-ah. I wouldn't do that if I were you. After all, we agreed that I shouldn't be treated as a slave. Maybe a servant but not some kind of pack mule or workhorse that you whip around with a stick."

Oh, right. She forgot about that particular detail. Physically harming her familiar meant abuse in the technical sense and a breach of the agreement they had settled upon.

Leon stood up and stretched. "Alright, I missed breakfast. Is it lunch already?"

"Not for the next two hours," she seethed. "You have been granted privileges befitting us in the aristocracy. Do not abuse them."

"Can't promise that," he muttered.

The pair made to leave when they heard someone else call out from across the ward.

"Pardon me!" Was that the Miss Longueville pulling aside the curtains surrounding her bed? She appeared rather haggard. "Are you by chance heading to the refectory?"

" _Oui, Ma'amselle_ Longueville," Louise replied politely.

"Splendid. May I walk with you?"

An odd request but nothing to dally on about. " _Bien s_ _û_ _r, ma'amselle._ "

The Académie secretary beamed as she swung herself off her bed, showing her right leg wrapped in bandages and angled in a limp. She reached for a crutch leaning against her bedpost and began hobbling over towards them, cringing all the way. "Please don't mind me. I'm only in this for the exercise."

"Whoa, lady, you look like you're not ready for that yet," Leon interjected. "You sure you want to keep walking?"

She beamed back sheepishly. "I thought I'd be able to after spending so much time in here."

"Looks like you haven't been here longer than I have. And you look like you haven't eaten," he continued. Then he glanced at a disapproving Louise before adding, "Just saying, miss. Nothing really, uh, insinuating about it."

Mademoiselle Longueville giggled. "No offense taken, _monsieur_. I can see you are not one to ignore any observations."

Louise noticed her familiar grinning a little too eagerly at the older woman. For some reason, that irked her.

"I call it like I see it," the younger man snickered back. "And from the way I see it, I don't think you're ready to be walking yet. How about you just stay here a bit longer. I can understand why you want to get back on your feet but, well, your leg isn't really ready for that yet."

She sighed then nodded. "I guess you're right. Forgive me for being eager."

"Hey, it's okay to get a little antsy. Believe me, I've been cooped up in worse places for far longer and that drives you crazy, you know? Ha-hah, um, yeah. That was...that was a bad time, um. Okay." He shrugged, glancing around, before helping her back to her bed. "Say, if you don't mind me asking, what happened to your leg?"

The secretary flashed him a rather thin smile. "Just a little accident. Fell down the stairs as they say."

"Must've been a nasty fall."

"Quite."

Louise felt that there was something more behind the secretary's facade. Or maybe it was her long uncombed hair draped over her spectacles that made her look almost somewhat offended. Regardless, the older woman had somehow managed to coax more friendlier words out of her familiar than the sophomore could ever achieve in two days—which was all the more irritating.

"So, you needed to get food? I thought you had servants for that," Leon continued, leaning by her bedside.

Mademoiselle Longueville curled her lip. "We do. But you can't deny a woman her cravings for something sweet at odd times of the day."

"Oh. Oh, right! Yeah, I get you. Got a sweet tooth, huh. Hey, maybe I might pick up a few sweet rolls if they have any. Does that sound good?"

"It does, actually. Thank you, _monsieur_."

"Call me Leon. I'm more used to that."

"Very well, Leon."

* * *

Later on, halfway down the corridor to the refectory, Louise asked her familiar rather tersely, "You seemed very friendly with our secretary."

"What? I can't be friendly with anyone here?" he grunted.

"No, that's not what I meant!"

"So you're what? Jealous?"

"Not that either!" Why in the world would Louise ever be jealous? There was absolutely no reason for her to be jealous! Jealous of what? Nothing at all. If anything, she was only curious as to why Leon was more amicable to the people around his mistress than his own mistress? "It's just that...you complimented her so quickly."

"More just noting observations here and there," he answered thoughtfully. "Pretty weird that she got something that bad from a nasty fall. Even weirder that she needs a whole set of guards. Or maybe this place takes real good care of their employees, I'm not sure."

"You don't think you would break a leg if you tumbled down several flights of stone stairs?"

Leon opened his mouth to argue. Then clamped them shut with a thoughtful hum. "... Point taken. Still, something just...doesn't feel right with that."

That she could agree with. "So you heard how angry she was when she said she had a fall."

"A pretty nasty fall, don't you think?" he muttered. "If you ask me, I think there's more to it than that."

Louise shook her head. "I don't think we should pry."

"Nothing wrong with being curious, you know."

"Let's just get you something to eat."

"And some sweets for Miss Longueville, too." Sensing the tense pause, he returned her flat look with a shrug. "What? She asked for some. What's wrong with that?"

"... Well then get me some sweets, too," the pink-haired mage grumbled.

"... Okay, then."

* * *

Matilda tried, that she did.

Was it so bad to just have some fresh air? She was not even going anywhere, for Brimir's sake. She missed mass, too, and even that was no excuse to leave—they could just have the deacon come by and give her a summary of the sacrament. Sister Catalina, bless her heart, really wanted the best for her but there was only so much a lowly healer could do. Opening the windows a tad bit was enough of a risk and so Matilda had to make do with her goose down prison.

Then again, there was the unexpected amicability from the supposed human familiar summoned by that Vallière girl. Leon, his name was?

Rough to look at and far from charming. But he was acutely perceptive which confirmed what she had been hearing through Sister Catalina; this young man was an experienced mercenary who had been living the same past life as that of the provincial governor.

How sweet of him though to insist she stay back in bed. Her leg was still in pain and when she forced herself to walk, the agony only intensified and it took her so much strength not to let any tears fall. Given how much strain she put on her injury, she was greatly relieved that she did not undo all of Sister Catalina's hard work.

"I heard that you tried to walk," groused said healer who had just arrived from the chapel.

"How was mass?" the older woman asked cheekily.

"Enlightening. Had _Monsieur_ Stephen not been a man of the cloth, I'd say he would have made for a fine orator."

Matilda chuckled. "I had a guest today."

"Yes. _Ma'amselle_ Vallière and her familiar companion _Monsieur_ Walker."

"Hard to believe that girl summoned a person to be her familiar," the secretary prodded.

"Controversial matter, honestly," sighed Sister Catalina. "But it is not my place to theorize on the works of the papal scholars. Now, how is your leg?"

As she let the healer poke and prod and practice her magic on her injury, the defrocked Albian noblewoman began to ruminate on the ramifications of a human familiar...and with what she knew of the holy texts and the obscure Brimiric prophecies, this could mean the return of the lost element. And that little Miss Vallière was most possibly a Void mage.

It was a good thing the Reconquista was so far unaware of all this—she shuddered at what they would do if they found out she failed. Nay, what they would do if they found out she had turned her backs on them and sided with the Tristainian Crown! Well, there was not much she could do now...other than hope that that damn count would stay true to his word and make an effort to save Tiffa and the others.

A half hour later, Monsieur Leon returned to the infirmary albeit for a very brief visit. He waved at Matilda as he dropped off a basket of sweet rolls.

* * *

While there existed no law requiring anyone to attend mass, to skip attendance for reasons beyond ill health, emergency service, or downright war was considered a serious faux pas at best. And Henrietta knew that the Courier could care less to give a rat's...bottom...about religious matters. At most, he was indifferent to the teachings of the Church and was unmoved by the consequences of his public disregard for adherence to the Brimiric faith. And although Cardinal Mazarin—whether out of respect for the man or his loyalty to her—strove to minimize the severity of her familiar's irreverence, it would only be a matter of time before the Church in Romalia would become privy to the royal messenger's considerably 'heathen' behavior...and promptly dispatch a papal legate to 'encourage' proper religious observance from the higher echelons of the nobility.

Which might lead to the discovery of Henrietta's case as a Void mage. And would inspire a call for a Papal Inquisition that would no longer be ignored. And that may expose everything...and undo everything...and lead to turmoil far worse than the mess in Albion. Until that day, the princess saw fit to have Courier Six on errands on the seventh-days and holy feasts to at least keep up the argument that he was busy serving the Crown to serve the Church. Though she wondered how long that excuse would last.

The cathedral bells rang throughout the sanctuary and the congregation rose to their feet as Cardinal Mazarin concluded his homily. It was time for the prayers and Henrietta stood with her mother Marianne and her retainer Agnés, all three being 'exemplar' followers of the Brimiric faith (though, truth be told, they were about as devout as any lowly commoner). Having been seated at the first pew as per her station as the queen, her mother was the first to approach the altar upon which she knelt down to offer her supplications.

The princess knew what it was about; the queen had transitioned from grieving the loss of her beloved to depression from losing her beloved. And as the days passed, it was becoming evident that she was passing on her right to rule to her daughter. After a while, Marianne departed with her aides. And Henrietta approached the dais with Agnès close behind. She knelt down with her hands clasped tightly and her head bowed.

Mazarin leaned down with the usual words. "What is your supplication, _Madame Royale_?"

The princess already knew that the cardinal was aware of what she was going to say. It had been the same for the past two weeks. "I pray for the soul of _Comt_ _é_ Bazaine De Hainault. May he find forgiveness from his sins, may his heart find peace, and may he see the light of Brimir and feel the embrace of the holy saints. And may Brimir grant me the strength to continue my duty as princess as I will soon mantle the throne..."

It was the same prayers.

And the same pleas.

By the time she was done, she felt her cheeks wet with tears and she hid her face to dab them dry with a napkin. As she made to depart, her eyes scanned over the congregation that were offering their own supplications either where they stood or directly to the cardinal. To her surprise, she saw her familiar leaning against one of the pillars at the end of the nave...waiting for her.

"How long has he been standing there?" whispered an astonished Agnès.

"Only one way to find out," the princess answered, the crowd parting before her as she made her way across the sanctuary towards the Courier.

* * *

"Henny, why is _he_ here?"

Henrietta breathed in, breathed out, and set down her teacup to address her most irksome and very irked familiar who was now irking her other guest in the parlor of the royal palace. She held up her hand to keep neither Agnès nor Cardinal Mazarin from answering in her stead.

"Sixième, as you know, this is _Monsieur le Archiduc_ Olivier De Poitiers, the current appointed marshal of our entire military."

The archduke offered a short bow before continuing to sip at his tea. "A pleasure to finally meet your true person, _Monsieur_ Sixième Courrier."

Courier Six frowned deeper as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Goddamn son of a fuckin' bitch, Henny."

De Poitiers blinked wide-eyed in surprise and was even more baffled when he saw that Henrietta, Mazarin, and Agnès were all equally nonchalant about such blatant vulgar language. The royal musketeer even shrugged with an almost bored look on her face that told him to get used to it.

"This really ain't no fuckin' joke, in'it," the royal messenger gruffly continued.

" _Non_ , Sixième," the princess replied resolutely. "Whether you like it or not, _Monsieur_ De Poitiers is now involved with our humble little clandestine circle."

The archduke recomposed himself, aware that he himself was a kindred soul to the Courier with regards to physical imposition, battlefield experience, and general directness. "I understand, _Monsieur_ Sixième, that you have no love for me—"

"The feeling's mutual."

"Yes, understood," De Poitiers droned. "However, for the better, I have been included into this elaborate scheme of protecting Her Royal Highness and the kingdom. You will simply have to accept it in the same way that I am inclined by my oath of service and my loyalty to the Crown to cooperate with you in every way I could."

Henrietta felt the Courier's dry, green eyes bore into hers with such intensity that she began to feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Then again, her will was absolute and her familiar, by the power of Brimir, was compelled to obey regardless of his opinions.

"You ain't makin' this easy, Henny," he growled.

"You likewise never made my work any easier, Sixième," she hissed back.

"If I may intrude," Cardinal Mazarin echoed sternly. "Discussing _Monsieur_ De Poitier's awareness and involvement in our endeavors against the Reconquista is moot at this point. _Monsieur_ De Hainault, you are aware that the archduke is the marshal of the kingdom's military and hence holds supreme authority over the entirety of our armed forces subordinate only to the Crown."

The Courier snorted. "Fine. So I guess he knows about you and me bein' some damn prophecy come true."

"Her Royal Highness being a mage of the Void," the archduke said reverently. "To think such a notion was outrageous, if not blasphemous. Yet here we are. My liege blessed by the Founder Brimir and the entire matter kept from the Church in Romalia."

"For now," Henrietta added. "Sixième, you have something for us?"

The royal messenger, glancing to the musketeer captain leaning by the bookshelves with her arms folded, paced over to the table between the princess, the archduke, and the cardinal. "What I say here does not leave this room. Understood?"

Henrietta offered him a flat look, her lips almost moving to retort back. Then she him leveling a fierce glare at Archduke De Poitiers who glared daggers back in turn.

"Good." Six straightened himself. "Silencing spell?"

Mazarin rapped two of his fingers against his papal staff.

"Right. Angie?"

Agnès nodded back. The palace guards and the royal musketeers on the grounds were made aware of this meeting and were keeping the hallways and adjacent rooms vacant.

"You."

The archduke raised his brow.

"Lie to the Cour Royale," the royal messenger ordered. "I know the reason you're here is 'cause o' them finicky fucks. Remember that we've done some right prunin' and know that I'm still prunin' so don't even bother try to call up your buddies for another show trial 'cause you ain't gon' find much support than you did last time."

De Poitiers huffed. "You clearly do not know me, _Monsieur_ Sixième. I am above petty desires that either harm the interests of the Crown or threaten the stability of this kingdom."

"Uh-huh. I know who y'are. I done gone did my homework, done some right diggin' on you. And I damn well know that you'd rather someone other than Henny right here be in charge, don't you think?"

Henrietta, Mazarin, and Agnès eyed the archduke.

"I will not deny my concerns as you have stated them," De Poitiers stoically admitted. "But I am here to serve the Crown and the kingdom. Everything else is secondary."

The Courier appeared unconvinced. "Even the Church?"

To the princess's muted surprise, the old marshal nodded unashamedly. "Even the Church. I follow the teachings of Brimir, not the desires of his servants. No offense intended, _L'Éminence_."

"None taken, _Monsieur le Archiduc_ ," the cardinal replied neutrally.

"Right." The royal messenger eased back to pour himself a goblet of wine from one of the end tables. "I know I'm not supposed to like this but goddamn it, I don't like it."

"We are aware of that," the princess echoed tersely. Patient she may be but her familiar had depleted most of it at this point. "Now, Sixième. What is it that you have for us?"

He took a long gulp before striding over, not liking the uncertainty twisting his bearded mien. "Henny. Don't freak out."

Oh Brimir, no. This better not be bad news.

"Your childhood friend Louise..."

She gulped, reining in as much control as she could over herself, keeping stone-faced as her hands clasping tightly over her lap.

"...she summoned a person at the Académie."

Oh no. This was worse.

"She's a Void mage, Henny. Just like you."

This was much, much worse.

"On the bright side," the Courier continued, "at least we ain't gon' have to worry 'bout buildin' bridges with someone who's technically got a fraction o' God's powers now, eh?"

Princess Henrietta blinked in disbelief. Mazarin rubbed his forehead. Agnès's jaw fell slack. Archduke De Poitiers stared at his tea.

And Courier Six downed his goblet, pursed his lips, then inspected the bottle of imported southern Gallian wine. "Not bad, this'un. I like the flavor."

* * *

"Henrietta?"

Henrietta quickly spilled the remaining contents of her goblet onto the trimmed grass while she tucked the bottle of light Vallière fruit wine under the garden table.

"M-mother! You surprised me," she stammered.

Queen Marianne De Tristain strode over to where the princess was seated in the royal conservatory. "Are you by yourself?"

Not anymore. "Yes, mother. Is there...is there something the matter?"

The older royal regarded her daughter with tired, discerning eyes. Her aged lips stretched thin into a disapproving frown which only deepened when she sat on the vacant chair across from her. "Where did you find this?"

Henrietta sighed dejectedly. "... In the royal cellar, mother."

"You never liked that place. Ever since you were young, you refused to go down there for fear of the palace ghosts and the sort. And up until now, I have never considered you willing to venture there for a drink since you almost never indulge in such things," the queen outlined. "What has changed?"

Her place in life, mother. The princess was doing far more work than she needed to long before she even had to be cause of a certain grieving royal widow. "... The burdens of the day have gotten to me. It is how it is."

"Henrietta... If you pour yourself another cup, you might not be able to walk back to your quarters."

"I can manage," she choked out softly. "I can manage...like I always do..."

Crickets. The night time breeze wafted over them both, rippling through their evening gowns.

"Henrietta—"

"I'm fine, mother."

Marianne's face remained stoic, her weighted eyes growing heavier and sterner than her voice. "No. No, you are not. Come, my daughter. You have had enough and it is time to rest."

"I'm old enough," Henrietta protested weakly, failing to resist the tug of the queen's grip on her wrist. "Let me go..."

"You are tired," her mother cooed. "It is time to rest. Come now before you get a cold."

No matter how much she tried to resist, she found herself submitting. The more she willed herself to protest, the more her body allowed herself to be dragged out of the chilly air of the conservatory into the warmer halls of the palace. And when she attempted to reach for the bottle under the table, she found it scooped up by her mother who took a swig herself before setting it onto the table.

"... That is enough spirits for today, don't you think?" the queen remarked.

Henrietta, her rosy cheeks now wet with bitter tears, growled back, "It's not enough! It's not enough... I need— I need more to f-forget that you d-don't even w-want to..."

"Want to what, my daughter?"

Her fists tightened hard enough to go white. "Forget that you don't even want this anymore...and I now I have to pick up the pieces. Why me? Why not you?"

"Henrietta, I cannot—"

"When will you stop mourning and start helping me lead!?"

The pair stopped in the middle of the corridor, marble floors mopped immaculate and frescoed ceilings polished clean.

"I'm sorry I cannot help you with how I am now," Marianne whispered, taking her into her arms. "Forgive a senile woman for her shortcomings...and pray for the end of her grief...for it cannot leave me no matter how hard I try to forget."

"Don't forget father," the princess sobbed. "I don't want you to forget him... I just want you to mold me in the way he would have wanted me to be. What you both would have wanted me to be..."

Caressing her hair, the queen pecked her on the forehead. "I will try, that I promise you. From now on, I will try."

As her daughter continued to weep against her shoulder, the soon-to-be dowager queen of Tristain stared distantly at the end of the hallway where two opaque shadows stood opposite each other, leaning against the pillars, both regarding the royals from afar.

* * *

"Oh, Henrietta," sighed Agnès.

"'Bout damn time Her Majesty up an' gone done somethin' right," grunted Courier Six, her mentor and trainer leaning casually against the column across from her with his arms folded.

The musketeer captain huffed at him. "Offering Her Royal Highness a drink and later informing Her Majesty of where she could find her was an act of kindness I almost never expected from you. Though I consider the preference of spirits unnecessary."

"Hey, Henny right needed a cold one. Wouldn't deny her that. Plus, Her Majesty couldn't sleep so why not point her in the right direction?"

Incredulous, she shook her head. "Sometimes, I think you are too proud to showcase your benevolence."

Shrug. "I do what needs to be done, Angie. Ain't no need to pin morality to that."

"And sometimes, I think all those spirits have rotten the part of your brain that gives you empathy. Or was it the bullets?"

He breathe deep before muttering back, "Definitely more than them bits o' lead, that's for damn sure."

Agnès regarded him for a bit before turning to see the princess leaning heavily against the queen as they walked back to their quarters. "It was a good thing you did not offer her the stronger variety. You know, Her Royal Highness does not have the tolerance for such heavy spirits."

"Prissy lightweight," he snorted. "Well, least she ain't like that whiny-ass Maryland batter. Kid talked my damn ear off last night with his sob stories. Didn't think he couldn't handle a shot o' the good stuff 'til after the first cup."

Her brow rose high. "Are you saying that the Left Hand Of God cannot hold his liquor?"

The man scoffed. "Shit, Angie. He's a damn featherweight. Killed his fair share and done some more and you'd think he can down a whole keg o' the hardest kickers this side of the continent. But nope. Two sips in and he starts goin' on and on and on _and on_ about how the wasteland fucked him over an' why he has trust issues... Christ, at least he didn't reach for my shooters else I'd have delivered to y'all worse news."

"What can be worse news than having _two_ Void mages with _two_ legendary familiars in our kingdom?"

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled half-heartedly. "Maybe the fact that I may have potentially gotten on the bad side o' one o' the most powerful mages in the entire kingdom...maybe even the whole continent."

She narrowed her eyes. "Come again? Who did you offend now?"

"Ken's wife."

Agnès felt her jaw drop.

"Pretty sure that woman ain't gon' like what I done gone did to her daughter," he prattled. "Necessary measures, you understand."

The musketeer captain could not hide the disbelieving bewilderment overcoming her. Of course, out of all the people in the world, the man she begrudgingly admitted to looking up to finally offended the one person everyone hoped he would not offend. "Sixième...what did you do?"

"Calm your tits, Angie," the Courier grunted. "I didn't hurt anyone...well, not anyone o' them students. Just had a chat with the little firebrand, made sure she complied. Hell, even got the Acadèmie to cover my ass when the shit's gon' hit the fan and I'm pretty damn sure by that look on your face that shit's really gon' hit the fan real soon."

She blinked several times. "Do you even know who _Madame le Duchesse_ De La Vallière is?"

He shrugged. "I know. 'The Great Tempest' of Tristain. Seen her in person before an' let me tell you, she got them Medusa eyes."

"She is known as Le Grande Tempête for a reason!"

"Uh-huh."

Agnès had to remind herself that this man, despite having been here for a month now, remained largely a stranger to many of the customs, traditions, and personalities of this world. "Have you ever prodded a manticore?"

He rubbed his unkempt beard. "I treaded on a two-headed bear and rodeo'd a golden bull."

"... You're inviting trouble from one of our most loyal subjects."

"I know Ken. He's still got enough of his balls left to calm his wife down. Then again, that'd mean his nuts will be gone by the time she'll be comin' for me."

She massaged her temples. "What did...what did you do to _Ma'amselle_ Louise?"

"Just had a friendly chat with her. Laid down some ground rules. Had Ozzy there to back me up, don't worry."

Dear Founder Brimir, she did not like how he worded that. "How 'friendly' of a chat?"

"I wasn't that cruel." He scratched on his gloved hand where the Brimiric runes had been burned into his skin. "Needed to set things straight 'fore things'd get out o' hand."

"I can understand why," Agnès croaked morosely. "Either _Ma'amselle_ Louise, or her entire family, is descended of a different non-Tristainian noble house. Or Her Royal Highness is."

"And little Louise ain't cut out for the shit that Henny's goin' through," the Courier piled on. "She's too arrogant, too hotheaded, and too damn naive."

The musketeer captain could not disagree with that, barring the bluntness of it. "What about her familiar? _Monsieur_ Leon Walker, you said his name was?"

"Vettin' him." He eased off the wall and began pacing in the other direction with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his iconic duster fluttering in his wake. "Got work to do. See you around, Angie."

Agnès watched him leave, herself too occupied with her own thoughts to even bid him a good night no matter how much she wanted to.

* * *

_Earlier that evening..._

Queen Marianne De Tristain did not know why she needed to be out and about at these hours of the night. There had to be a good reason for this and when she saw that it was Count Bazaine De Hainault who had asked for her personal presence, she felt assured that it was something of utmost importance. Her expression fell flat however when he simply told her that her daughter was waiting for her in the royal conservatory.

" _Monsieur_ Sixième," she groused tiredly, "why must you waste my time like this?"

Silence.

Maybe she her senses had dulled with age or her depression was clouding her judgment but when she opened her eyes after massaging her temples, she noted the sourest look on one of the very people in the kingdom who showed her nothing but warm sympathy, heartfelt kindness, and genuine understanding. To someone she could rightly call one of her closest confidants, she felt ashamed at how offended he appeared.

"With all due respect, _Madame la Reine_ , what the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded quietly, his green eyes burning with an anger she never felt from someone close in a long time.

Had he been another person, then such a slight would be met with immediate corrective punishment. If Duchess Karin De La Vallière were present for this, the woman would have cut off his tongue before castrating him for being so blatantly disrespectful. Only the queen would not allow it. For while Karin was the caring and compassionate sister she never had, Count Bazaine De Hainault had since proven to be the crass and concerned brother she did not know she needed.

Nevertheless, Marianne recoiled with a hand over her chest. "Sixième, what are you saying?"

"I get that your grievin' but come on, woman. You got two eyes an' two ears an' a workin' brain but you still don't get it, do you."

"I don't understand—"

He shook his head at her. "Your daughter. She needs you."

To this, the queen turned away. "I am...not in the proper state to be advising her."

"Yes, you are."

Marianne seethed. "You said it yourself, Sixième. I am grieving. I am still in mourning over my husband, my light, my love—"

"His late Majesty ain't the only one you deeply care about," snarled Courier Six.

"I lost someone dear to me!"

"And another is losing someone dear to them right now," he growled into her face, shocking her so much that she took three steps back.

Wide-eyed, the queen recomposed herself, her hand clutching tightly the bust of her evening gown. A part of her raged at the blatant offense yet her heart screamed back in firm rebuke. Whatever retort she could muster died at the tip of her tongue, leaving her gawking much akin to a fish hauled out of the sea.

He continued to glare at her, towering over her with the build of a golem and the seething fury of a tamed bear. A moment later, his back was to her as he eased against the wall, his arm over his head and the other on his hip, his head bowed in exasperation.

"Goddamnit, Marianne. Henny doesn't need the queen," the Courier rasped. "She needs her mother."

She felt the world around her stop.

"It ain't my job to fix your fuckin' problems. Sure as hell ain't my job to let your daughter go hurtin' like that. This ole war dog can do a whole lotta things but I can't fill a role I wasn't meant to have."

His gravelly voice rang in her ears and slowly she took steps forward, her destination the royal conservatory. She paused in her stride when she was a few paces ahead of him.

"Sixième...do you have children?"

She did not have to turn around to see his face when he responded. "That's irrelevant, _Madame la Reine_."

He sounded so broken. About as broken as her when her beloved Henry succumbed to the damned illness that had no cure. Such brokenness...such pained acceptance of the inevitable... It was enough of an answer for the queen. For if there was anything Marianne De Tristain could discern in her current mood, it was that she knew another grieving soul when she heard it.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 30, 2021**

**LAST EDITED: February 13, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 13, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (February 13, 2021) - A merry fourteenth day of February, folks! Exercise to avoid heart disease. And remember: don't bootleg booze or Capone's boys will come for you.


	8. Day XXXIV - XLIX

_Day XXXIV_

"Did you have to shoot her?" Francis asked.

Her Royal Highness's herald emptied his tankard before replying. "Had to. Couldn't take the risk."

"Risk of what exactly?"

"Y'know. Her magickin' her way out o' the box. I was half-expectin' her to throw ham with her fists but the cheeky bitch don' even known how to throw a straight jab. Just shows how a lotta y'all high-standin' mages are pretty damn fuckin' useless without your magic sticks an' whatnot. Laughable, really."

The Viscount of Wardes, whose secret allegiance to Reconquista had ended in favor of 'redemptive service' to the Tristainian Crown, nursed his own tankard of moderate ale, the subtle jabs at the limitations of mage-craft stinging a little. So far, it was a slow morning here at the Charming Fairies Inn which, over the past week, had seen a surge in clientele. That and there were some significant renovations going on simultaneously within the same district; seedy shops were being refitted with better facades and more credible wares while cramped apartments were being reestablished with better housing. Even the canals running alongside the cobblestone streets were coming unclogged by recently hired street cleaners.

Interesting to know where the coin for all these changes came from.

"So d'you confirm her intel?" Count De Hainault asked after a most immodest belching.

Francis nodded. "There is an orphanage in the village of Westwood, County Wiltshire, southern Albion. Currently managed by a young woman by the name of Tiffania, currently some unimpressive though many within the Reconquista think she is of some obscure repute. The orphanage is home to at least a dozen or so children, oldest being sixteen, youngest being three. Tiffania herself is a year shy of her twentieth."

"Records are accurate?"

"We cannot know for sure given that Albian's annals are still held by the royalists. It is possible that the information we have gathered is at this point outdated."

"Hmm, a'ight." The magistrate signaled to Scarron over by the bar for more ale. "So Miss Tilly from Picadilly's got herself shot silly 'cause o' some wee nilly orphans, huh."

Francis gawked at him. "I don't know whether that was an attempt at poetry or merely your drunken rambling."

He waved him off. "Focus, Frankie. So them rebels up north are holdin' a whole town hostage—Westwood, you call it—so Tilly can fuck around here in Tristain, eh?"

"That is a crude but correct summary, yes." Tilly? What an unnervingly charming sobriquet for Lady Sachsen-Gotha.

"Shit. So she really ain't lyin'."

"Her circumstances were inevitable given the climate," the viscount remarked somberly. He held the defrocked noble thief with the same regard as any professional associate—dispassionate respect with either compliments or rebuke based on their merit—yet even he had room for sympathy for the woman. "I did not expect her to be rooted out so easily."

"You were rooted out easily," the count reminded him.

Francis scowled. "Is there anything else you'd wish to know, _Monsieur_ De Hainault?"

"House Gramont and House Grandpre. They ain't behavin' like they should. I need you to confirm whether or not they're worth stringin' up. Or if they just need a kick in the 'nads to get 'em to fall back in line."

"You know if you keep at this, there would not be much of the Cour Royale left," the viscount echoed solemnly.

The count raised his brow at him. "Isn't that what you were gunnin' for in the first place?"

Francis nearly slammed his fist on the table. "I only aided those northerners because of common ground on matters of the Church, the nobility, and the salvation of the human race. Not to thin out righteous men deluded by the illusions of a weakened crown. I am willing to put down a life for the sake of a noble goal, not to wantonly massacre innocents accused without a semblance of a fair trial."

"Or y'all just delayin' the inevitable."

"I'd rather live with the hope of the preservation of humanity no matter the cost."

"Even if it cost humanity itself?" Count De Hainualt snorted. "Never underestimate the stupidity of the human race, Frankie. Where I'm from, we done right shot ourselves in the foot so goddamn bad, we had to start over. And we did it more than once, mind you."

"Your origins constantly elude me."

"The less you know the better." The magistrate quickly plastered on a polite smile just as one of the scantily-clad barmaids arrived with another full bottle of hard ale. "Thank you, miss."

"And I thought we had a bit more trust in this relationship," groused the viscount behind his tankard.

Haughty laughter. "Keep earnin' it, son."

* * *

Siesta wondered if the reputable 'human familiar' Leon Walker was either earning her good graces in exchange for something or simply expressing a genuine unconditional kindness towards her and her fellow plebeian staff. Such treatment was not unheard of but quite uncommon so having to go through this in person was something new that astounded her.

Here was a dashing, young man no older than her who was unconditionally helping her with her tasks, offering her awkward but heartfelt compliments, and even sympathized with her struggles as a plebeian serving ungrateful patrician children. He was far from charming but he was very amicable, all the more so when they both began talking about her grandfather's homeland...

...the so-called 'waste-land.'

And while she still held doubt, she was now most convinced that a world burned by great fire and poisoned for near eternity very much did exist. And that both Monsieur Walker _and_ Monsieur De Hainault hailed from the same distant land, albeit from different 'coastlines' as the former put it. Which made her a little more prideful of her lineage and the tenacity of her ancestors living in a world that killed them with the air they breathed.

Splash.

"Ah, fuck!" hissed Monsieur Walker. "Damn it. Sorry."

The maid giggled behind her palm at her companion's soaked shoes. "It's alright, _monsieur_. It happens sometimes."

He whinnied. "Come on, Siesta. You can just call me Leon. I'm not really with that whole ' _monsieur_ '- ' _mademoiselle_ ' stuff, remember?"

"I apologize. It is hard to do away with pleasantries." Especially towards someone who was most pleasant company, she did not add.

"Yeah, yeah, old habits die hard, I get it," he groaned. "Anyway, you were saying...?"

Siesta continued to recount to him the stories of her grandfather's initial callousness and cruelty towards her grandmother back when she was still but a virtuous maiden. Such a topic came at the request of Monsieur Wa—ah, pardon her—at _Leon_ 's request. It seemed his interest gradually rose the more she regaled him of the vague yet colorful exploits of Talbes's own celebrated knight-errant.

"... So he came here in a set of...'unbreakable steel armor,' was it?" he reworded.

"Unbreakable from near anything except rust," the maid replied, hanging up the clothes to dry.

He planted his hands on his waist in thought. "That so? Did they, uh...did they happen to glow in some areas?"

"They were supposed to. The parts that were made of glass like the eyes were supposed to be alight with some kind of magical energy which, supposedly, meant that the enchantments on it were working, making the armor near indestructible in the same way that it empowered the person wearing it."

"... Okay then."

Siesta noticed how suddenly distant he became. "Leon?"

"Could you...could you describe the armor more?"

"Um, it has been awhile since I last saw it." After all, other than rare family gatherings or the sacred days of remembering the dead, there was no reason to visit her grandfather's shrine...and behold his majestic steel armor and steel weapons sealed in a glass case next to the sarcophagus he built...as well as caress the slumbering steel wyvern forever guarding the old warrior's tomb. "What I know is that it is...odd in the way it was forged. Unlike any of the armors I've ever seen before. Frankly, the visage of the helm alone is quite scary. As a child, me and my cousins were almost always terrified by it even though we knew it was an empty suit of armor."

"Did anyone try it on...after your, uh, grandfather, um, passed?"

"My father, uncles, and some distant relatives tried. But they all claim that it was almost impossible to move in it. And that there were these odd little bulges and other things inside the armor that made them feel like they were walking into a tight closet filled with dozens of dull needles."

"Kind of like walking into an iron maiden, huh," he remarked offhandedly. "And the, uh, the...the 'enchantments?'"

"Oh, no one could figure that out either. My grandfather stubbornly took those secrets to the grave, saying that the world was not ready for such 'breakthrough ingenuity.' Still, if you pressed your ear close enough, you could hear a faint humming noise like some kind of energy whirring inside. I don't know if you could now though; it has been a long time."

Leon rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Still got some juice in it then, huh... So...what did they do with it?"

"It was immediately decided from then on to respect my grandfather's wishes and have it sealed away. Which made sense since no one else knew how to use it." And while Siesta could guess that not even the nobles could achieve any success with it, her entire family did not want to take the risk of exposing such exploitable treasures to someone who could have easily wiped them off the face of the earth with the snap of their fingers.

Looking up from the now empty washbasin, she noticed her companion seated on the grass in contemplative silence.

"Leon?"

He blinked back up at her. "Sorry. Yeah?"

She gestured at the assortment of wet clothes that belonged to his 'mistress,' Mademoiselle Vallière. "Do you need help with that?"

"Uh, no. No. I got this. Thanks..."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah." He began awkwardly fumbling with some pink, frilly loincloth that most definitely belonged to the reputable sophomore. "Guess panties haven't been invented yet, huh."

"Pan-teys?" Siesta echoed confused.

Leon blinked wide-eyed while he tried to hide his flustered cheeks. "Nothing. Uh, how about you handle her underwear and I do the dresses and the uniforms, yeah?"

The maid chortled behind her palm. Oh how amusing that men, no matter their station, never really could understand the mysteries of women. "Very well."

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XXXV_

An explosion rocked the Académie.

Siesta had long since gotten used to it; Mademoiselle Valliére had a reputation for making the tasks of the staff and custodians all the more difficult. But she was surprised when Leon darted past her towards the source of the blast.

She heard yelling from the classroom that was surely wrecked. This was followed by a confused and slightly bemused Leon re-emerging into the corridor with his furious and very embarrassed mistress.

The maid simply stood aside, offering a low bow with her hands neatly folded, as they passed. Though, this time, when she raised her head, she caught her...friend...shrugging at her with a smile that told her that this was going to be another long day for him.

A few hours later, the maid noticed Mademoiselle Zerbst and Mademoiselle D'Orleans following Leon across the school. Knowing her station, she did not inform him. And she was probably just reading too much into the situation; the two sophomores were most likely on a mid-afternoon stroll, most likely to shake off the dirt from Mademoiselle Vallière's explosion earlier that morning.

As she passed them by, she overheard another argument. A loud one that was punctuated by two loud slaps and two very angry students—was that Mademoiselle Montmorency?—storming off amid a small crowd of jeering sophomores. In the middle lay a dumbfounded Monsieur Gramont, both his cheeks reddened by handprints.

Well, that was unfortunate.

Siesta quickly averted her gaze and resumed her gait until she reached the servants' quarters. No use in attracting the ire of a noble son whose charlatan tomfoolery had been exposed in a dramatic fashion. The ordeal made for fun chatter later that evening though, much better than talking about another Tristainian nobleman falling from grace and his properties confiscated by the Crown or another band of mercenaries getting into trouble somewhere in Tristain on behalf of some local lord.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XXXVII_

If anyone were to ask Siesta what she really thought about Mademoiselle Zerbst, she would privately admit to being astounded that the Germanian was masterful with what she naturally had: playing with her assets to the point that her promiscuity had long since ceased to become a source of shame and scorn but a matter of pride and leverage. Very few boys succeeded in resisting her charm.

Among the very few being Leon Walker.

And Siesta wondered whether or not he was the reason for Mademoiselle Zerbst being rather offish lately. Less charming and more irritable. And the way the Germanian regarded Mademoiselle Vallière's familiar with an unusual look that bordered between lust, curiosity, and frustration. Or maybe the humble maid from Talbes was reading too much into things.

"Hey, Siesta!" greeted Leon. "I just checked with Director Osmond. The Void Tower's pretty much abandoned and the stuff stored there is, well, forgettable."

"Yes, the Void Tower has long since been more of a ceremonial addition to the school. Usually, that's where we throw away anything deemed irreparable or worthless," Siesta replied. "Does that mean—?"

He gave her a thumbs-up. "Yep, _we_ got a new hangout. With a nice view, too, if we can clear out the crap in the upper floors. See you there in a few?"

'We.'

Dear Founder Brimir, she felt rather strange at that.

"Siesta? Um, you okay?"

"Oh, um, I...d-didn't quite catch that. P-pardon?"

"I said I'll see you there later? Y'know, during your break? I'll bring some snacks too so you don't have to carry a whole tray across the school."

"Th-that would be nice." With that, she bowed slightly as he walked off with his hands in his pockets and his rather uppity mood alleviating most of her worries.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XLII_

Her daily afternoon breaks with Leon had been the most pleasant—if not her most favored—part of working here at the school.

To be in the good graces of such a kind young man of greater standing. While he himself was completely incapable of magic, no one could deny the fact that he was a commoner with a noble title. Something that was very common Germania and frowned upon yet tolerated throughout the rest of Halkeginia. He was horrible at brewing tea, preferred coffee, and was averse to heavy spirits, that much she learned.

And of course, this was not entirely in secret. No effort was made or encouraged to put up any illusions; Leon insisted on it, saying that it was just too much work for some 'stupid rumors.'

Well, the newest 'stupid rumors' that Siesta had been picking up were nothing short of scandalous. No, they were not having an affair! No, she was neither 'stealing a noblewoman's love' nor 'plotting to overthrow the authorities' or something ridiculous. In fact, Siesta was more surprised at how...accepting...Mademoiselle Vallière was about this nature of her relationship with her familiar. Perhaps the pink-haired sophomore was not as irritable and ill-tempered as she thought. Or maybe because Leon had argued (as usual) with his mistress about befriending a commoner like her.

That seemed most likely. Given that later that evening, Leon mediated a more informal introduction between herself and Mademoiselle Vallière.

Of course, stuttering aside, she still held up her chin and puffed out her (non-existent) chest being that she was of the aristocracy. But at the end of the hour, Siesta could only pity the poor girl. Burdened by luxury and privilege yet finding no happiness in her daily affairs.

"I feel more grateful about my place in life," the maid remarked as she walked with Leon down the corridor to the servants' quarters to retire.

"I mean, if you take away this class-and-rank bullshit, we're all people who eat the same stuff that grows out of the soil, y'know what I mean?"

Siesta giggled into her palm. "You're right. We all get our food from the same farmers, after all."

"Exactly! And you all drink the same wine from the same vineyards."

"You mean we get our grapes from the Vallière lands."

"All the more reason for Louise to quit being such a spoiled little shit and learn to accept that she needs us—you, me, and every commoner around—to help them up," he joked. "I mean, who is it that makes the fancy, cushioned chairs they sit on? Who carries them on their shoulders like some human carriage? Without us to hoist their asses in the air, they can't taste the clouds, right?"

Siesta chortled. "I'm glad the students are all asleep lest they would take your opinions so poorly."

"Fuck 'em," Leon snickered. "Who cares what they think? Sure, they can magic all this crap but take away their wand and close in with some good old fisticuffs and they're about as easy as, well... It'd be cheating at that point, hah!"

"If only those brats could get that straight through their heads, hah," interjected Chef Marteau.

Siesta squealed in surprise even as the young man beside her bumped his fist with her superior.

"It's a little late to be wandering around, eh, _Monsieur_ Walker?"

"Just making sure Siesta here gets back to her dorm safely," Leon replied with a smile.

The burly cook simpered. "With how you've been treating her for the past week or so, I'd have thought you were courting this fair maiden here."

Oh Brimir above, please stop it with this, Seista mentally screamed. She felt her cheeks warm up as she hid her face behind her hands.

"Ah, well, I'm not on the market, sir. Just looking out for my friends, y'know," Leon echoed back sheepishly.

Friends. Of course, they were friends. Very good friends and nothing more.

Chef Marteau bellowed out a heavy laugh before slapping him on the shoulder. "Of course, you are, boy. Wish we had more of you. Now, off to your dorms now. It's late and wouldn't want Siesta here facing the coming day without any proper rest."

"Sure thing. Goodnight, Mister Marteau. Goodnight, Siesta."

The maid stammered out a weak response before rushing back inside much to the confusion of the young man she wished she could be even closer to and the older cook who was shaking his head at their 'youthful antics.'

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XLVI_

Siesta did not know whether or not she was being blessed or cursed by Brimir. Perhaps both given how often she would hear Chef Marteau joke about the Founder's 'sadistic' sense of humor. All she knew right now, however, was that Leon Walker, class and standing be damned, was willing to defend her name.

Her.

A lowly commoner.

A humble maid from the humble fishing town of Talbes in the not-so-humble County Flanders, north of here.

What did she have that she was deemed worthy of concern from the servant of a daughter of a prominent noble house in Tristain? Was it because...because of their daily afternoon tea breaks? Was it because of their...friendship? Did he truly regard her as a friend? Did he, a man of greater station than her—privileged by the Académie and favored by a prominent member of the Cour Royale—actually care for her well-being as a person?

Could it be that...that he...he really, truly was _smitten_ by her of all people!?

"Listen, asshole," he loudly growled across the refectory. "I don't give a shit if you're dad's the goddamn field marshal of this fucking country. You leave Siesta alone and we let bygones be bygones."

Gasps.

Silence.

Monsieur Gramont was shaking with fury on the other side of the long table.

"Guiche," pleaded Mademoiselle Montmorency. "That's enough. Let this go."

Siesta found herself powerless to stand from the floor, akin to a crippled hare sandwiched between a dire wolf and a huntsman. The moment passed suffocatingly with the whispers of the on-looking students echoing off the walls.

"Y-y-you insolent buffoon," hissed Monsieur Gramont, his hand clenched white over his rose-wand. "What makes you think you're better than us?"

Blink.

Flash.

And the entire refectory was witness to a 'lucky commoner' standing over the long table, his hand clutching a bread knife pressed against the bare throat of the blond sophomore whose anger was now replaced with pure, carnal fear. Said fear passed to the crowd when they heard the taller man speak.

"You have until the count of three to back down before I drag this over your neck."

Monsieur Gramont tried to glare back. "Y-y-you wouldn't dare!"

"One."

Mademoiselle Montmorency stomped on the floor as she tried to assert her noble station. "Stop this at once!"

"Two."

The son of House Gramont did his best to remain adamant. "I...I will not—"

"Three."

Shlack!

Siesta screamed as much as most anyone else present when Monsieur Gramont staggered back under a spray of blood that erupted from his below his chin. He fell atop Mademoiselle Montmorency who, despite her horror, did her best to stop the bleeding.

All the while Leon wiped the butter knife he used to so blatantly harm a noble son with a table napkin. "I warned you."

"You monster!" the blonde water mage screamed. "What have you done!?"

"I cut him. Not too deep. Didn't hit the jugular so he'll live. Didn't hit the voice box too so he can still talk shit. If he still wants to keep talking shit, that is."

"Y-you've assaulted a noble!" one of the seniors present declared.

"And? I'm technically a noble at this point. Besides, he was being a dick towards Miss Siesta here."

"He was only going to ask her some questions!" screeched Mademoiselle Montmorency while she cradled her fiancé in her lap, the blond himself now wide-eyed in pure terror as he covered his throat with both hands.

"That so? Well, did he have to be a such a pompous, condescending dick about it?"

Siesta found herself being hefted up by Leon who seemed unbothered by all the attention and by the fact that he just _committed a punishable crime in front of several witnesses._

"You alright, Siesta?"

The maid nodded shakily.

"Good. That's good. You know, you've been spacing out lately. Everything alright with you?"

Before Siesta could respond, someone else raised their voice in the refectory.

"What in Brimir's name has happened!?"

"Oh shit," Leon sighed, his cold demeanor now replaced with guilt...at being sloppy with his crime that he was now easily caught. He turned around to face the unnervingly furious Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert. "Oh, hi there, prof! Didn't see you there. You see, um, I can explain."

* * *

Later that evening, shortly after most of the Académie's denizens had retired for the day, Siesta was seated on her bed in the servants' quarters, herself the subject of the excited gossip between her fellow maids who seemed rather indifferent to the fact that _she was right there and listening to them weave tales out of today's mess!_

"He is definitely smitten by you," Jasmine cooed.

"There is no way in Tartarus that such a dashing young man would stand up for your honor without some feeling of affection," piled Nina.

Amilie pinched her cheeks. "You're lucky you have someone pining for you, you know."

To which Siesta pulled back with a groan and flopped onto the sheets. "Holy Founder, why me?"

"Why not you?" chorused the other three.

It was a good question. And one that the dark-haired maid from Talbes could not really answer. For one, she was elated that she found favor in the eyes of someone so chivalrous and kind and sweet and friendly and handsome and...and..and... She rubbed her eyes. On the other hand, she was terrified that she was about to be sold off to someone who seemed the exact opposite: a cold, irreverent, cruel, and terrifyingly conscienceless warmongering count.

After what she had experienced today, if Leon were to find out about this—if the day ever came that she would have to depart for Count De Hainualt's estate—then that might spell trouble on a grander scale than what had been mitigated this afternoon.

Or maybe Siesta was taking her blessings as curses and she was rather very tired and wanted to sleep away her concerns because they were making her most uncomfortable.

"I hope _Ma'amselle_ Vallière won't mind," she mused.

And that got the others riled up again.

"Oh my, _Monsieur_ Walker is indeed the familiar of that girl. And they have been bonding recently."

"They say that her explosions have gotten worse. You should watch out, Siesta!"

"Maybe it'd be best if you were to remain amicable with him. There are more fish in the sea as they say."

"Will you three shut up and drop this already!?"

Heavy knocking on the door. " _Bordel de merde_ , you girls are always keeping me up at night! Go to bed already!"

"Apologies, Chef Marteau!" the four squeaked before blowing out their lanterns and dashing under the covers.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XLVII_

Louise wanted to hit Leon so bad.

But alas, she was beginning to fear the provincial governor as much as she feared her own mother. The more credible news reaching the Académie from all across the kingdom only vindicated the wild rumors that had been plaguing the school recently.

Already half of the Cour Royale had been 'purged' by the Crown through the 'vigilance, intuition, and initiative' of Count Bazaine De Hainault and his bloodhound lieutenant Chevalier Michel Ney. The most alarming bit—and one that terrified Louise after seeing how mortified the staff, including Professor Colbert and Director Osmond, were upon hearing it—was that Archduke Olivier De Poitiers, the marshal of Tristain's entire military and essentially the most powerful man in the kingdom below the royal family, had been speaking _in favor_ of the controversial count!

That was not to mention the rising number of mercenaries, mostly Germanian, riding around imposing law and order in County Hainault. There was no doubt as to who they were working for. One Germanian was enough here at the Académie but having to deal with even more gallivanting about in the nearby towns and villages. At least Kirche had the decency to hold herself to the modicum of aristocratic standard. But uncouth commoners on warhorses with longswords, muskets, and Brimir-knows what else...

And that was all on top of the encounter between her familiar and her classmate yesterday...which was the sole reason why she was summoned to the director's office to stand by the actions committed by someone she was supposed to have control over. Then again, with the arrangement brokered by Count De Hainault, 'control' was loosely defined as it was loosely applied.

"I thought we talked this over," Leon groused.

"Shut up, you imbecile," Louise hissed, half tempted to stomp on his foot with her heel. "You nearly killed Guiche!"

"He was being an ass! I even gave him several chances to back down but his 'oh-so noble pride' just had to take precedence over common sense."

"You're not helping matters!"

"I was being reasonable and I'm still getting punished for it. Guess the worlds out there are still the same. Shouldn't be surprised then."

Director Osmond cleared his throat. " _Ma'amselle_ Vallière, _Monsieur_ Walker, consider yourselves fortunate that _Monsieur_ Gramont, _Ma'amselle_ Montmorency, and the countless other witnesses have all agreed neither to pursue any punitive action against you nor support any punitive action by the school against you for your ill behavior."

Both mistress and familiar sighed in relief.

"However, while this institution has unanimously decided to forgive this incident, know that the next time such a thing would happen again, I will be forced to take punitive action regardless of the benevolence that may be accorded to you," the centenarian wizard intoned very sternly. "We gave you leniency and privilege and expanded your standing on the basis of trust, _Monsieur_ Walker."

And coin and influence from a certain magistrate, no one wanted to added.

Director Osmond withdrew his varnished smoking pipe from his drawer, his voice never once rising from the baritone of authority that made Louise shake in her shoes. "Once more, I reiterate: do not abuse our generosity, _Monsieur_ Walker. You may be a martially adept warrior but I am also a competent Square-class wizard. Do not provoke me or I will show you the consequences of depleting my patience. Am I understood?"

The pink-haired sophomore glanced to her familiar to see him cowed. Was that fear she was seeing or humble acquiescence? Or maybe both? Still, it was a unique sight to see from someone so arrogant and abrasive.

"Understood, sir," Leon croaked. "It won't happen again."

The director squeezed in the crushed herbs and took a few puffs. A moment later, he calmly said, "You know, _Monsieur_ Walker, I am curious as to why you have consistently ignored the advances of _Ma'amselle_ Zerbst."

Louise gawked. That harlot was still pining after him!?

"She's not my type," her familiar replied. "But she just won't get the hint. I've met a lot of people like her so this isn't really a first for me."

"And while I can surely reprimand her behavior—as I've done countless times before to no avail—I am met by an interesting development from her dearest companion _Ma'amselle_ D'Orleans. I am sure you aware of her keen observations of you both."

The pink-haired mage blinked. Tabitha was spying on her? How!?

"Yeah, I could see that but, well, she's a weird one. So I try to ignore her like I do everybody else. It's not like she's telling her dragon to eat me or something." Leon shuddered. "I think the damn thing wants to though. I've seen that kind of look before on, uh, these big-ass muta—ah, erm— _monsters_ that I used to hunt."

Director Osmond snickered. "You're a curious fellow, _Monsieur_ Walker. A human familiar, unusual Brimiric runes, uncanny coincidences involving our provincial governor... Now, you have the eyes of many of the young ladies here, including some of the maids. And one in particular."

The young man frowned. "Siesta. I know you know. Don't pretend, sir."

"Yes, yes. You stepped in when she was being pestered by _Monsieur_ Gramont over matters that he has admitted to me. That boy was fearful and acted irrationally and he is already serving his due punishment. But the questions he wished to ask the poor girl. Would you like to know?"

Louise very much wanted to. She nodded with Leon.

The director set down his pipe. "Very well. Is it true that you have been hired by _Monsieur_ De Hainualt to put on this entire charade of you being _Ma'amselle_ Vallière's familiar? For the sole purpose of extending his influence over the school and, allegedly, ensnaring the daughter of a prominent Tristainian noble house for political leverage?"

The two blinked back.

"What?"

"Excuse me?"

The centenarian wizard chuckled. "Absurd, isn't it? They think that _Ma'amselle_ Siesta was privy to some inane plot involving you and the count. Hence, since they found both of you unapproachable for various reasons, they thought they could find the answers from a commoner."

Leon waved his hands. "Wait, wait, hold up. _They_?"

"Oh, pardon this old mind for forgetting. Monsieur Gramont was not acting on his own ill-informed fears. _Ma'amselle_ Montmorency, _Ma'amselle_ Zerbst, and _Ma'amselle_ D'Olreans all shared these same concerns and thought to, ah, investigate of their own accord. In their minds, they were saving the school. Though, from where I stand, it is nothing but youthful folly unchecked and left to fester towards a putrid outcome. A mistake on our part as instructors that we continue to rectify."

Louise sat gobsmacked. Is that...is that what her classmates in this school thought of her? That she was still a Zero with no magical talent...to the point that she faked the most sacred of rituals? Why the audacity!

"Man, and I thought Three-Dog was the best at this kind of bullshit," sighed her familiar.

"You know of Kérberos?"

"No, no. Not the three-headed dog from Greek mythology, I mean the—"

"Whose mythology now?"

"Ancient Greeks. Uh, never mind them. They were a thing back where I'm from but I don't know if you have something similar over here."

"Still, a three-headed dog? From the ancient myths? Kérberos. You personally know of one?"

"Oh, no. Just a man. Charismatic dude with hypnotic voice. Really chill and can spin up a tale and sell it hard to even the best skeptic. He calls himself Three-Dog but, then again, come to think of it, I never really knew his real name. Eh, he probably doesn't tell anyone that so nobody really knows what his real name was."

"Interesting. Was he a bard, a spinster, or...?"

"He was a disc-jockey."

"A what-now?"

"A disc... Ah, I mean...think of him as this guy who...has this, uh, tower that projects his voice across this massive area so people can hear it. But they need a certain, um, device to hear his voice."

"Intriguing. He speaks from a tower yet only those with a certain artifact can hear it?"

"I wouldn't say artifact but, well, it's called a radio and it's this thing where..."

Louise pulled on her hair as the discussion between her familiar and the director took on a tangent that was beyond her means of understanding. Was she not here to be punished, told-off, subjected to some consequence?

"...and that's part of the reason why people suddenly know who I am almost everywhere I went, y'know?"

"Yes, I can see how that can sometimes be vexing. More so when you are trying to remain inconspicuous for the task, no?"

"Exactly! And I was thinking to myself 'how the hell did they know?' and then I hear Three-Dog come in through the radio in the back talking about what I just did like two days ago and I was like..."

Louise looked around the office, finding some form of solidarity with Miss Longueville sitting in her desk by the door. The bespectacled secretary offered her a sympathetic gaze and a shrug before going back to her papers, her crutches leaning by the wall behind her.

"...so what was it again that you were going to have Louise do?"

"Nothing much, really."

"Really?"

"Really."

The pink-haired sophomore blinked between Leon and Director Osmond.

Her familiar coughed into his fist. "Well, Louise. Looks like you're off the hook."

"For now," intoned the centenarian wizard, whose sternness once more returned. "The next time, I may be willing to hand you to the wolves."

"Of course, _Monsieur Directeur_ ," Louise said, glaring at the man seated beside her. "I will ensure that nothing like this ever happens again."

"Oh, I'm sure you would. However, with the liberties accorded _Monsieur_ Walker here and the limits of your control over him as per the agreement we have with _Monsieur_ De Hainault, I will not hold you entirely accountable for his...misbehaviors."

That was not very relieving. "What of my classmates? I mean, they started it. Right, Leon?"

Director Osmond dragged on his pipe before answering. "... I assure you that _Monsieur_ Gramont has learned his lesson in humility. Though not entirely from his experience the previous day. More so, there have been events outside of his control, outside of the Académie, and outside of _my_ control that have convinced him to trim his youthful pride."

Louise and Leon shared a look. That sounded ominous.

"Um, what do you mean outside of your control?" her familiar asked.

"Let's just say that many of the students here have had their own families go through some difficulty regarding allegations of corruption and the sort. Rather boorish politicking, I'm sure."

Leon raised his brow. "It's not boorish if it scares the kids here half to death."

"I cannot say for I do not know, _Monsieur_ Walker. What I do know is that House Gramont, House Grandpre, and a few other prominent noble families are being, ah...set to rights."

And having to involve the family during such a time would be disastrous, Louise mused. Perhaps she should pay more attention to the affairs of the world outside the school. Though that would mean filtering through all the baseless gossip but, well, where else could she start?

"I see that we have discussed what was needed to be discussed," concluded Director Osmond. "You may return to your classes, _Ma'amselle_ Vallière. And you, _Monsieur_ Walker, I expect you to behave whilst you busy yourself with your own affiars."

Louise stood up and bowed. "Of course, _Monsieur Directeur_."

Leon yawned and shrugged. "No guarantees but I'll try, sir."

* * *

Five minutes after the pair had left his office, Osmond smoked the last of his herbs and gazed at the view outside his window.

" _Par les Fondateur_ , I'm getting too old for this," he groused to himself.

Lady Sachsen-Gotha grunted from her desk. "And you said you would never retire."

"And you want money to keep flowing into your orphanage, don't you?"

The centenarian wizard heard his secretary cease her writing and her labored breathing. He counted to three before her expected acerbic retort. "You really like to bring this up, old man."

"I will hardly tire of tormenting someone who has deceived me so spectacularly," the director answered coldly. "You have made a fool of me in front of too many people."

"It wouldn't have been so easy if you weren't such a damn lecher."

"And I would not be so lenient towards you were it not for _Monsieur_ De Hainault."

Silence. Followed by the tip of a quill dragging against parchment. "Fine. Remind me hour after hour how the people I care about are starving to death while I slave under you for money that I doubt would really go to them."

Osmond regarded her. "You doubt my generosity, Fouquet?"

The wounded thief glared at him through her monocles. "Your past sins speak otherwise."

"The past is the past, woman. I was a selfish man in the prime of my youth. Now, I am an old wizard serving his purgatory as the director of this institution."

"You see your role here as penance?"

"I gave you my word that a portion of your salary from now on would go to Westwood village through our channels in Gallia," he said. "If you must know, three Tristanian Dot-class battle-mages were killed trying to deliver the first shipment. The first was killed by corrupt Gallian officers. The other two perished in Albion, fending off the a band of rebels from stealing _your_ gold."

Judging by the way Lady Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha stared back slack-jawed, it was clear she had no idea of how sincere he was with this. "You...what...?"

"That is my generosity, _Ma'amselle_ Longueville. As for _Monsieur_ De Hainault...well, I'm sure his benevolence would manifest itself when the time would come."

Osmond turned back to the gazing out the window. A while later, he heard his secretary choke out, "He gave me his word that he would save Tiffa...he would save everyone..."

"I do not know how much his word is worth," the director intoned morosely. "Yet I feel that _Monsieur_ De Hainault is the not the sort of man to go back on it. If he can win the favor of archdukes and purge half an entire court in so little time, then I have no doubts of his capability to see through to his grandiose promises."

"Are you saying that...he's actually going to Albion...?"

"I do not know. If he is, I do not expect to be informed of it." The director reached for his staff and levitated the paperwork on his secretary's desk onto his. "You may rest for now, _Ma'amselle_ Longueville. I see that your distress is preventing you from working. I will handle this for now."

Without a word, Lady Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha wiped her face dry, hefted herself onto her crutches, and limped out of his office.

* * *

**-~oOo~-**

* * *

_Day XLIX_

Siesta always anticipated the worst whenever she received a summons from the nobility. Hence she was most nervous when she was escorted to Director Osmond's office by one of the Académie guards.

Her nervousness elevated to anxiety when she saw Count Bazaine De Hainault leaning next to the window behind the director's desk with his arms folded over his chest, his holstered steel pistols glistening against the sunlight peering through the glass. The director himself was nursing a goblet (of wine, no doubt) and appeared to have very recently recovered from a headache or two.

"Greetings, _Ma'amselle_ Siesta," he greeted tiredly. "Come in. Have a seat, please."

The maid bowed and eased onto the cushioned chair. "How may I be of service, _Monsieur Directeur_?"

" _Monsieur_ De Hainault has recovered your contract and we have been going over the clauses and discussing the transition of your employment from the school to his estate."

Oh.

The time has finally come.

Siesta stilled her beating heart and remained as stone-faced as she could. She did not really know what to feel towards this news. For one, at least she was not being sold off to some coldhearted lecher rumored to be housing a dungeon of pleasure-slaves. But at the same time, she was being sold off to a coldblooded killer who had no qualms about openly murdering anyone regardless of station and consequences.

"You're gon' be workin' for me now, lady," the count said gruffly. "Pack your bags, say your goodbyes an' all that. You'll be picked up by a carriage tomorrow morning."

The maid bowed low enough to hide the tears that were threatening to break from her eyes. " _Oui, monsieur._ "

* * *

"Siesta's feeling a little down today," Leon remarked.

"Again with that maid," Louise groused. "What is it about her that you feel the need to needle me about her well-being? I am not her mistress! She belongs to the school."

He shrugged. "Hey, just saying. Can't fault me for being concerned about my friends."

Friends? With a commoner? Not uncommon but not something that the pink-haired mage felt comfortable with. "... Well, voice your concerns to someone who can actually offer aid."

Her familiar folded his arms while giving her a look that made her feel a little guilty. "You _can't_ help or you _won't_ help?"

"Even if I would, I could not. I am a student, a sophomore. Not to mention my magic. What do you expect me to do?"

Leon sighed. "I guess you're right. But...look, I'm going to talk to her again. Maybe figure out if we can do something to get her out of the doldrums, y'know?"

"She's probably tired."

"And how would you know that?"

"We just had dinner. The sun has gone down. For sure, she is resting from her chores. Would you not be irked to be disturbed from a much needed rest after all the things that you've had to do for the day?"

He shrugged. "Point. But I'm still going to check up on her."

Louise grit her teeth. "Fine. Go! Just...just don't pester me with things that are far above me. Above you, as well."

"Aye-aye, ma'am."

* * *

Louise could pinpoint so many reasons for her irritability today. She sat before her vanity mirror, scowling at her reflection, and gripping her hairbrush so tightly that her knuckles were white. The dreams she had been having recently were partly to blame, she was sure. Waking up in a cold sweat, unable to forget walking through the ruins of some mighty civilization, running from mercenaries wanting her head or a horned devil yearning for her flesh...

No. They were just dreams and nothing more. Vivid, haunting dreams that made her relive in some twisted way the experiences of her own familiar... Ah, nothing to get too worked up about. And definitely not something worth telling anyone really.

Besides, worse things have happened in reality during the day. As usual, her attempt at casting a spell during one of the morning classes ended in spectacular failure with the classroom being shuttered for the remainder of the week for clean-up. At least her explosion was minuscule with the most damage being soot on everyone's faces.

But then Kirche just had to pester her and... Wait, then again, Kirche was herself feeling a little irritable as of late. Maybe she was finally confronted by her many suitors or she had been scolded more sternly than ever before by the school staff. So maybe the Germanian was not entirely the source of her foul mood today.

Oh, wait. Of course, it had to be Leon.

Leon and his callous disregard for the Brimiric hierarchy that had been in place for six thousand years. He cared not for his social standing, openly mingled with commoners, and even dared to flirt with...with...with that...that...

"Gah!" she hissed, nearly tossing her hairbrush out the window.

She was _not_ jealous! She was _not_ craving attention, especially not from the likes of her annoying familiar! She was only feeling...that time of the month. Yes! Yes, it was that time of the month...even though she had gone through the cycle a few days before the Invocation.

Louise dropped onto her bed exasperated. It was hard to study, harder even to focus on something else. Even the moons in the sky were offering little comfort for her addled mind.

"Damn it, Leon," she hissed, allowing herself respite from using such foul language. "I'm a...I'm a..."

Dare she say it?

"I'm a...I'm a..." She sniffled. "I'm a friend, too..."

"You say something?"

Louise shot up to her feet and nearly tossed her hairbrush at her familiar easing into her room. "Don't you ever knock!?"

"Sorry! Sorry," Leon stammered, hiding behind the door. "Can I come in now?"

The pink-haired mage folded her arms with a scowl. "What do you want?"

"Geez, can't a guy pay his partner a visit?"

Partner? _Partner!?_ "I said. What. Did you. Want?"

Instead of rolling his eyes or throwing back some snark, he instead shuffled in with the most concerned look on his face. Checking that no one else was in the corridor and shutting the door slowly, he said, "You said you wanted to help, right?"

"Help with what?"

"That if you could, you would."

Brimir above, was this about that blasted maid that he enjoyed spending time with more than eh spent time with her? "If I could, yes."

"Good. That's good enough for me."

"Where are you going with this?"

He breathed deep. "I'm thinking of heading out tomorrow. To the nearest town or city."

"And?"

"You know. Go shopping."

"For?"

"Ah, this is where you come in. See, I don't know what girls like and..."

What girls like? Is he...is he asking her for advice...for buying a gift...for a girl? And who was it for?

"...well, I was thinking a dress or maybe a necklace or something. I don't know. That's why I was wondering if you could, y'know, take me on a tour of the nearest town and we go, ah, shopping for some stuff...?"

"And for whom are you doing this for?"

Leon sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I was thinking of buying Siesta something to cheer her up. She still won't tell me what's getting her so down and not even the staff are filling me in so I was thinking of buttering her up with a little something special, y'know? And, ah, I'm also technically broke so...you're rich, right?"

Louise felt a vein pop in her temple.

* * *

"We have a problem," Mazarin echoed.

Henrietta sighed. Immediately after the cardinal's arrival from a summons to Romalia, he greets her with words that she did not want to hear until after she had breakfast. It was close to midnight and she thought she was done for the day, her weighted eyes showing how rudely she had been interrupted from her slumber...not that she minded given that her dreams were once more delving into the desert paradises of her familiar's past.

Clad in a mantle that concealed her nightgown, the princess gestured at her royal advisor to sit in one of the chairs here at the parlor of the royal palace. Thankfully, Agnès was still awake, often rarely stepping out of her plated armor, and was setting down the lantern onto the table. Her mother, Marianne, having been asserting more of herself over the past few days, had joined her, also in her royal mantle draped over her own nightgown and expressing consternation at having been woken from her rest.

The royal pair seated themselves before the cardinal who then asked, "I have not seen _Monsieur_ De Hainault."

"He is—"

"Right here," intoned Courier Six who appeared to have also just arrived from somewhere distant. "Got your message, ole Julio. This better be important."

"It is," Mazarin intoned. "And what of _Monsieur_ De Poitiers?"

No one answered. It seemed the archduke was either running late or had already retired for the evening.

"I shall have him summoned here then," the princess said, gesturing at her royal bodyguard to dispatch a messenger to rouse the marshal of Tristain's armed forces for this rather urgent and secret meeting.

"While we're waitin'," Six began. "What's this that's got your jimmies in a knot?"

The others present in the parlor stared back at him.

To which Count Bazaine De Hainault groaned. "It's a saying. What's the matter?"

"Right," the cardinal said, recomposing himself. "As you know, I have been summoned to report directly to the Pope concerning matters here in the kingdom and...he has been made privy of the affairs being conducted on behalf of the Crown regarding 'dissident' elements of the Cour Royale as well as the lower nobility."

Henrietta wanted to drop her head into her hands. She knew this was coming. And now she was caught ill-prepared for it. Damn it!

"Shit. Sounds like a bad thing," quipped her familiar.

"That's because it is," retorted her mother.

"This matter has already been discussed by the Holy See and His Holiness is considering their motion of dispatching the Inquisition to investigate and"—Mazarin cleared his throat—"settle the matters concerning the 'unwarranted proscription' of the Cour Royale among all things."

The queen narrowed her tired gaze. "Define 'among all things.'"

The cardinal took a moment to compose his response. "Among other issues discussed by the Holy See regarding the kingdom is the issue of corruption among the nobility, cases of desecration of Church property by aristocratic proxies, and instances of blasphemy uttered by...well...a prominent member of the Cour Royale."

Eyes turned to the Courier emptying a bottle of wine into his goblet. "I ain't apologizin' for callin' God a heartless bastard."

"And the corruption charges?" asked the musketeer captain.

"That the proscriptions have been the result of corruption in the highest echelons of the Cour Royale, falling short of accusing Her Royal Highness and Her Majesty of such things."

Again, eyes turned to Courier Six frowning at his goblet which was nearing empty. "I say that if they're lookin' for corruption, they ain't lookin' in the right place. Gallia's got it much worse with a hundred sticks up a hundred asses an' they gon' be right pickin' at us 'cause we're small enough to be picked on and there ain't no civil war that's gon' complicate matters for 'em."

"What is this about desecration of Church property?" Henrietta inquired. "I've never come across such claims."

"Neither have I, _Madame Royale_ ," the cardinal said. "It seems that representatives of the Cour Royale, or their proxies, have appealed to the Church in Romalia with these claims showing evidences of such desecration. I have seen these proofs and I assure you they are masterful forgeries of false reports of damaged properties. I will be conducting a thorough review of these locations myself tomorrow to challenge these claims."

Count De Hainault burped loud enough to draw everyone's attention again. "Damn, I didn't know y'all take your places o' worship really seriously."

"Sixième," the princess growled. "Is there something you need to inform us regarding the properties of the Church here in Tristain?"

"Hey, it ain't me that done gon' pissed on the walls o' some church somewhere, a'ight? Them boys just had a little too much to drink an' I let 'em loose. Didn't think they'd waltz right into a church and, well, unload on the altar or somethin'." Courier Six ignored their bewildered guffaws as he paced around the parlor looking for something to drink. "That's how them Germanian boys do it. Hell, they're some damn fine warriors with their zweihanders and flintlocks but goddamn do they drink like there ain't no tomorrow."

Agnès furrowed her brow. "Germanian...warriors?"

Mazarin huffed in surprise. "Unload onto the...the altar of all places?"

Marianne pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course, you're the only one who would hire entire companies of landsknechts and have them prance about unfettered in the streets."

The royal herald held up his hands. "Look, at least they didn't tear them places down. Sure they may have relieved themselves on some chairs an' graffiti'd their names on some walls an' maybe sort of, ah, redesigned some saints."

Unnerving silence.

Courier Six, being the irreverent irreligious image of insanity, only scoffed. "It ain't too bad, a'ight? I'll whip my boys into shape, don't you worry. Besides, we got more than enough coin from all them wealthy opposition nobles to a pay off all them witnesses. And who knows? Maybe them inquisitor boys wouldn't mind a little extra coin in their pocket in exchange for, ah, some little white lies? Nothin' that a minute in the confession booth don' fix, eh?"

This time, Henrietta dropped her head into her hands.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 30, 2021**

**LAST EDITED: March 6, 2021**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: March 6, 2021**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (March 6, 2021) - Some interactions between characters can sometimes be misinterpreted for something else.


End file.
